WP3A: Bad Wolf Ballet Ver2
by Lilac Reverie
Summary: Wolfe Pack Series, Part Three - VERSION 2: Rose Tyler, Defender of the Earths - all eight of them. There are more parallel worlds than those we've seen, and all are in trouble now. Rose/TenB and my usual couple of surprise guest stars. -Acts 2 and 3 have been edited and rearranged.-
1. Act 1 The Man with Sea-Green Eyes

**Bad Wolf Ballet**

 _AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am reposting this story because I have finally edited the heck out of Act Three. I never liked what I had done there; it was rushed and anticlimactic as all get-out. I plead writing fatigue. The basic plotlines may not be much different (spoilers!) (OK, they're no different at all), but I hope how we get there is much more entertaining. Plus, I got a kickass new pic. Don't be fooled by the tiny new chapter count – it's still a novel-length fic, even longer than before! I combined each section into a single file (and therefore a single online chapter) for ease of handling._

 _New readers are strongly urged to begin with the first story in this series, ReichWorld. Many details herein won't make sense without it._

 _This rewrite is dedicated to my good friend Rodney Dobson, who passed away at a ripe old age in Dec 2016. Rodney loved his native England, good writing, and Doctor Who. If you also love the last two, you could do much worse than find his profile here (same name) and follow his favorites and reviews. I will always miss you dreadfully, mi amigo. I only wish I had finished this rewrite in time for you to read it; I think you would have approved._

 _Lastly, I had to page through these files online to add dividing lines and to bold/center chapter titles. I'm sure I missed one. Please let me know, and if you see any typos. Thanks!_

* * *

 **Prelude**

 _Original (Alpha) Universe, some time in the 2030's_

They struck without warning.

Captain Jack Harkness was sitting in his office in the Torchwood Hub, staring morosely at the superphone he'd accidently unearthed from the bottom drawer. It had stopped working several years ago, no answer any time he called Jared and Rose off in their own universe. He'd never had the courage to check for them on his version of the dimension cannon, humming to itself on autopilot over in the corner of the Hub. He didn't want to know. Deciding he still didn't, he reburied the phone back in the bottom drawer.

As he was bent over, the door to the tunnels leading to the outside world was suddenly blasted off its hinges, sailing several feet into the Hub's central well – quite a feat for a hunk of solid steel. Jack peered wide-eyed over the top of his desk through the resulting smoke and caught his breath. Weevils were pouring through the door, blasting their bulky energy rifles away at everything and everybody. _Weevils! Using weapons! Attacking en masse as though... directed!_

Shaking off the shock, Jack vaulted over his desk, pulling out his pistol as he went, knelt at the railing, and began picking off weevils. One coldly furious corner of his mind registered the human bodies already falling, as his current Torchwood crew reacted too slowly to the invasion.

An impossibly deep voice yelled from a communicator one of the aliens was carrying, setting off a tiny explosion in the back of Jack's mind, but he couldn't stop to analyze it right then. The weevils, reacting to the voice, had turned their fire on him. He vaulted over the railing and down onto the catwalk below, sprinting to a hulking slag of burning metal and glass that moments before had been Shelly's workstation. He knelt down behind it, ignoring as best he could Shelly's lifeless body to one side, and continued returning fire.

Most of the weevils had turned back to the Hub in general, apparently bent on destroying everything. Then the one carrying the comm unit stepped forward in response to another deep barked command, pulled something off his belt, fiddled with it, and threw it in a long arc towards Jack's hiding place. Jack zeroed in on the grenade and stood, turning slightly sideways, preparing to bat the thing back to the thrower. It was the only thing he could do.

Time dilated as the grenade serenely sailed across the Hub. Jack suddenly found his attention arrested by that voice. _Wait! WAIT! I KNOW THAT VOI-_

The grenade exploded two inches from his hand, and the world went black.

* * *

 **Act One – The Man With Sea-Green Eyes**

 **Plans**

 _Original (Alpha) Universe, 2064 AD_

Paul Corvantes was obsessed with two things: power and himself.

In the first, he wasn't at all unusual. Any given population of Homo Sapiens will have a percentage of those who are similarly obsessed, and who go about obtaining and keeping that power in a fairly usual number of ways. Corvantes' way was via the usual underworld methods: he was the typical ruthless crime boss, with tentacles reaching far across the face of the planet from his home base in London, and in all areas of illegal operations, from drugs to prostitution to money laundering to black marketeering to collecting politicians and police officials.

Recently he had chanced to come upon an abandoned facility hidden in the sewer system underneath Cardiff, full of an unworldly collection of equipment and gizmos – and a handful of moldering skeletons, two of which did not correspond to any known Earth animal, including humans. Whatever had happened here a decade or two earlier wasn't pretty.

Corvantes "the Sicilian" (so nicknamed for the birthmark on the back of his left hand in the shape of the island of Sicily) had also "acquired" a computer genius or three, and he let them lose upon the facility to discover its secrets. One of those secrets, a large contraption with complex computer systems and massive data storage, in much better condition than the rest, led in turn to his second obsession.

In this, he was completely original. For you see, it wasn't the body he inhabited that he was obsessed with, or the mind that inhabited it. It was seven other Paul Corvantes, in seven other bodies, in seven other parallel worlds.

Corvantes had discovered Torchwood's dimension cannon.

^..^

Soon after disentangling the timelines and discovering – after an idly-curious search – the ones labeled "Paul Corvantes" in each, the Sicilian's techs made another earth-shaking discovery: the Timeline Reader (as they called it) could also send things – and people – to and from those alternate realities. They made sure to run a few experiments to prove it before bringing this incredible fact to the Sicilian's attention.

And get his attention it did. Immediately cognizant of the implications of this technology, the Sicilian moved to contact his counterparts in each world, planning to join forces with each of them and spread his underworld network throughout the eight linked worlds.

It was there that his plan came to an immediate, crashing halt. NONE of the other seven Corvantes was an underworld boss. In fact, each one was disgustingly, law-abidingly, pansy-assedly _moral_. And none of them – not the tech company CEO, nor the pediatrician, nor the actor, not even the lawyer (constitutional law, not criminal) – NONE of them were interested in his plan, even after he managed by way of briefly "kidnapping" them all together to his own universe to convince them that the parallel worlds were real. To a one, each of them turned their matching sea-green eyes upon him and coldly announced he was on his own. Not even their shared Sicily-shaped birthmarks stirred any warmth for him in their hearts.

Reluctantly, Corvantes returned each one to their own world and life (resisting the temptation to stir the pot by mixing a couple of them up), and began to brood. How could it be that each of them had turned out so differently from himself?

He began to search back in their lives, and after a while made another startling discovery. According to the Timeline Reader, each Paul Corvantes except himself had had an encounter early in life with a certain other individual, who had influenced them so greatly that – especially in a couple of their lives – they had turned from a similar path to his own to the one they were now on, on the right side of the law. Hard on the trail, he dug down deeper, and discovered the identity of this person. The same person in each universe. He looked briefly, but couldn't find her in his own world anywhere.

If only he could reach back in time to disrupt those meetings...

And of course, that was when his two tame techies, rummaging around in the piles of junk in the Cardiff lair, found a collection of what looked like large, odd wristwatches. Upon experiment, they turned out to be miniature time travel devices – mentioned in the logs of the previous tenants as "time jumpers" from somewhere up in the distant future.

Screw the future. He was going back to the past.

Scarcely able to contain himself for the time it took for his techs to work out how to control the time jumpers, he attached one to the wrist of each of seven henchmen, and sent them through the timeline reader to the alternate worlds again – to travel backwards in time, kidnap this meddlesome woman, and bring her here to their boss. Then, he'd just see how those other Paul Corvantes turned out.

And so off they went, seven men in seven worlds, to kidnap seven women...

...named Rose Tyler.

* * *

 **Picking Roses**

Hannah Rose Tyler was having a perfectly ordinary morning – even if it was, technically, afternoon. She never did get up before noon, anyway; one of the many parts of her chosen profession that put her at odds with the rest of society. Her client the night before had kept her up till almost dawn with his games and toys. She stretched and smiled – even though he always gave her a hell of a workout, he was still one of her favorites. Kept her on her toes – literally. And of course, he paid quite handsomely and without complaint – another huge plus.

A long hot shower took care of the residual twinges, and she threw on some grungies and sauntered out the door, leaving "Belle" behind for the afternoon. Stopping in at her favorite coffee shop for a cuppa and a pastry, she then decided to go spend some of that money on a new outfit at that ritzy seconds shop she'd discovered last week. During the two block walk, she made numerous sudden stops at shop windows to confirm: yes, the guy who'd been loitering across the street from her flat was definitely following her. Okay, that was out of the ordinary. Was it a private detective, hired by a client's suspicious wife? Probably. _Well, let's make him earn his pay today._

She made a split-second turn into a noisy urban clothing store blaring hip-hop on the speakers and dashed through the racks to the rear, slipping out the back door into the alley just as her shadow entered the front, looking completely out of place in his odd suit. She grinned as she ducked behind the door and slipped down to the side street, turning right again. It would take her further from her destination, but she had plenty of time, and she wanted to play with the P.I.

Half an hour later, with no sign of him, she at last turned into the block where the seconds shop was – and literally ran right into him. He grinned and grabbed her arm with one large paw.

"Rose Tyler?" he asked.

Taken completely by surprise, she stopped trying to jerk her arm back and stared. Who on earth knew her by _that_ name? When she wasn't Belle, she was Hannah.

Taking her staring as confirmation, the man nodded, then used his free hand to jab a button on the bulky wristwatch on the arm holding hers. And Rose's day took a decided turn for the non-ordinary, as the world was snatched away from her in a blaze of light.

^..^

Rose Tyler was having a perfectly ordinary morning. She struggled out of bed at seven to the alarm, and was halfway through her hurried shower before remembering that today was _Tuesday_ , and her classes didn't start until _ten_ , and she'd forgotten to set the alarm back the night before. _Again_.

Oh, well, she was up now. She finished her shower – at a more leisurely pace – and decided to splurge and have breakfast at Starbright's, that new bakery-and-coffee shop down the street, and see if the worldwide chain deserved its reputation. Sorting through her stacks of textbooks and folders to make sure she had the right ones, she stuffed them into her book bag and let herself out the flat door, not noticing the man across the street peering at her over his newspaper.

Halfway down the block, she heard the footsteps behind her, and glanced back. A big, hulking guy in an odd-looking jacket, two steps back, grinned at her. "Rose Tyler?" he asked, with the air of someone trying to be friendly and non-threatening when his usual M.O. was anything but.

She stopped walking and faced him, keeping an escape route open behind the bus stop shelter. "Do I know you?" she replied warily.

He pointed at the book bag on her back. "You're about to lose something there."

Automatically glancing behind her, even though she knew it for a distraction, she cursed herself as he instantly turned the point into a grab, and had a hold of her arm. Before she could twist out of his grasp, he slapped his watch with his free hand, and the world melted away, then reformed in a new configuration. Shocked witless, dizzy and suddenly nauseous, she stared around her at the utterly unfamiliar surroundings: an urban portside square. How had they gotten _here_? The man now was talking to someone through a mobile phone, but before she could gather her wits to demand what was going on, he tightened his hold on her arm and it happened again, another trip through a psychedelic rabbit hole.

^..^

Rose Tyler was having a perfectly ordinary morning – well, as ordinary as your wedding day morning can be, especially with a Mum like Jackie.

She and Jared, the half-human Doctor (who had taken the human name Jared Wolfe after leaving the TARDIS), had FINALLY convinced Jackie that they were NOT going to have a big splash at the Tyler mansion, by dint of threatening to hold their preferred quiet, private ceremony without inviting her. That had shut her up, and – after a whole two week's wounded silence – she calmly called to ask if there was anything she could do to help.

"No, Mum, but thanks! We've got it covered!" They really were doing it simple – a late morning ceremony at the Registrar's office, then noon dinner at the Tragenna Castle Hotel with all their guests – all twelve of them – before boarding the zeppelin for their honeymoon cruise to and around Ireland – Pete's wedding gift. There was nothing to be done but make the appropriate reservations and write their vows. Rose did relent and let Jackie take her shopping for her wedding dress, though she insisted it also be tasteful and simple – and inexpensive. She never had understood the idea of spending several hundred or a couple of thousand pounds on a dress that would only be worn once – and Jared was in complete agreement on that accord, even if Pete was footing the bill.

Pete, Jackie and little Tony had come down to St Ives on the train from London the day before, along with a couple of the London Torchwood crew that Rose had gotten to know well enough to invite (including Jake, up from Paris with his French ladyfriend). They were all staying at the Castle, while the three Torchwood techs who lived in St Ives and worked on the dimension cannon with Rose were of course bringing their dates.

Tock had woken the couple up at his usual dawn hour, wanting to go for a romp on the beach. They made him wait for both a romantic interlude _and_ breakfast in bed, then relented and took him down the stairs. An hour later, a thoroughly wet and sandy dog was happily leading his humans back across the strand, dashing up to a strange man in street clothes below their balcony to sniff and noisily greet him.

Instead, his humans were startled and immediately wary when Tock stiffened and began growling at the stranger. He almost never reacted that way; he was the friendliest pooch in St Ives, known to all the residents.

"Can I help you?" Jared asked him, but the stranger simply shook his head, backing up another pace from the menacing dog. Jared whistled Tock off, and they turned to go around the side of their house to the front door. Rose paused at the step to lean over and try to brush some of the sand off her legs and bare feet, while Jared opened the door for the bounding dog. Tock bounced in and turned – and started barking again, a sharp, angry warning. Jared whirled around just in time to see the stranger throw his arms around Rose and stab a finger at the gizmo on his wrist, and the two of them disappeared in a flash of light, an instant before Tock reached them, launching himself off the steps and sailing through now empty air to land, bewildered, in the street beyond.

The Time Jump hit Rose's midsection hard, and she collapsed in a boneless heap wherever it was they had bounced to, head spinning, and lost her breakfast. The stranger dropped her with a disgusted snort, and she went on retching until she reached dry heaves. _I haven't reacted that way to a Jump in... forever. Why now?_ flittered through her mind, chased away by another wave of dizziness. She was vaguely aware of the man talking, apparently on a communicator of some kind. "Hang on, she's being sick," he said sourly. "I'm not carrying that back."

When her stomach finally stopped heaving, she started to try to get up, but he forestalled her, grabbing her arm in a painful grasp and giving whoever he'd been talking to the go-ahead. The dingy alley they were in disappeared in another flash of brilliant light, but this time, it didn't hit Rose as hard – or maybe her stomach simply realized it had nothing left to lose.

The space they jumped to this time seemed vaguely familiar to Rose, but she couldn't place it: a vast room with a metal walkway winding up around the brick and concrete sides, jammed with a large collection of machinery, some of it vaguely unEarthly, much of it in various states of disrepair. She waited a moment until her head stopped spinning, then carefully got to her feet, the stranger's hand roughly helping her up.

Then without a word he turned her slightly to face another man, and she caught her breath in unconscious fear. Well over six feet, angular, spring-tight muscles under an expensive tailored black suit, it was his eyes that caught and held her: icy sea-green, they pierced right through her soul.

He let the silence draw out a few seconds before asking, his voice menacingly calm and quiet, "Do you know who I am?"

She didn't need to search her brain; she was _quite_ certain they'd never met. She'd remember instantly if they had. She silently shook her head, unable to look away from his eyes.

"Think back. Do you know a young boy who resembles me? With a birthmark like this?" He raised his left hand and showed her the large, distinctive birthmark there. Her eyes flickered to it and back to his, then shook her head again.

He gave a tight smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Good. Then he got you in time. Take her down to the holding cells with the others." This last to the man holding her, as he turned disdainfully away to bend over the console beside him.

Rose finally tore her eyes from his and looked more closely at the console, then the rest of the apparatus immediately around them. Her eyes widened, but she kept her mouth shut as her arm was jerked again to get her moving. _This looks like a dimension cannon, but it's not ours. Is this in another parallel? Has someone else invented one? Or... Oh, shit. Is this Jack's lair, in Alpha? Then where's Jack?_ Her mind kept racing as she was walked down off the platform, through a corridor and down a short flight of stairs. She and Jared had sent Jack Harkness a "superphone" like the one she'd been carrying through their Cannon shortly after their return from Reich World, and he'd said he was beginning to work on a Cannon of his own. This place did seem to resemble the glimpses of his lair at the Cardiff Rift that she'd seen on the TARDIS monitor that awful, glorious day at the Medusa Cascade. _But WHEN are we? Where's Jack now?_

Then she was thrust through a thick metal door, which clanged shut behind her and the bolt shot home, and all thoughts of the gallant Captain fled, as she stared openmouthed around at six other women already imprisoned there.

Each of whom wore her exact face.

* * *

 **Connections**

"Oooookay," Rose slowly exhaled. "Definitely parallel worlds." Some of the six other identical faces exchanged glances at that pronouncement, while one of them perked up and stepped forward.

"Ulva?" she queried.

Rose swung towards her – only in one world had she been called that. She nodded, then gestured back to the speaker, "You're...?"

"Yeah, the Reich." Both women blew out relieved breaths to find one splinter of familiarity in the situation. "Do you know what world we're in?" Reich Rose went on.

"Well, definitely not Beta," Rose replied, thinking it through as she spoke, "because we made two jumps. The first was a time jump, the second was between worlds." Catching the quizzical look on Reich Rose's face, she grimaced. "Experience. There's a slight difference in how it feels. Besides, he controlled the first with a time jumper," motioning to her wrist where it would be, "but had to call home for the second. What about you? How many jumps did it take for you to get here?"

"Two," came the reply with a nod. "So we're not in Reich World, either."

"What about the rest of you," Rose turned towards the other mirror images. "How many jumps did it take for you to get here?"

A confused chorus of "two"s came back from most, but Reich Rose turned to another woman standing to one side with a uncomprehending expression, and reposed the question in slow, basic German, with many gestures pantomiming the experience. Finally the light dawned, and two fingers were held up. Reich Rose turned back to Rose, explaining, "She doesn't speak English. I don't know what language she does speak – it sounds kind of like Welsh – but she also speaks a bit of a kind of German, so we can talk a little bit."

"How long have _you_ been here?" put in Rose. The other woman seemed to have made quite a bit of progress in understanding the situation.

Reich Rose shrugged. "A couple of hours. I was brought in first, then these others one by one." She turned again and gestured to yet another Rose. "Her English is strange, much closer to German, but still English. The rest of us all seem to speak the same."

"And we were all brought across parallels. So we're either in Alpha, or another one entirely." Rose returned to the main question.

"Why Alpha?"

"Because that's where I'm from originally. I'm Alpha's Rose Tyler. There wasn't one in Beta. Besides, I think I know where we are, anyway – and that's definitely in Alpha." The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that they were in Jack's hideaway under Cardiff.

"And you are a very clever girl," came a male voice from the doorway, and all seven heads swiveled in that direction. They hadn't heard the inset window open.

Their captor's face peered through the bars, his ice-green eyes staring at Rose. "So you are the one who should have influenced me? I'm grateful for your absence."

"Excuse me?"

"I've brought you all here because each of you would have had some sort of influence over the parallel versions of myself at some point in your future, influence I do not wish you to have. Now things will progress the way they should have."

"And what are you going to do with us?" Reich Rose demanded.

"I haven't decided yet. Perhaps I'll keep you around for amusement. You'd make a marvelous dance troup. Or a harem..." Corvantes smiled malevolently – and again, Rose noted it didn't reach his eyes.

Suddenly, an odd sound came from behind Corvantes, a dull _thud_. His eyes glazed over, and he toppled out of sight of the inset window, knocked out by the blow from a blunt object. The holder of that object loomed up instead, grinning cockily through the window.

"Sorry, buddy, but the only one around here allowed to have a harem is me."

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Rose yelled, but her answering grin betrayed her relief at being rescued, once again, by the one and only Captain Jack Harkness.

^..^

Jared stared in panic at the spot Rose and the stranger had just winked out from for several long moments before snapping out of it. He turned and thundered up the stairs to their flat, flying back down a moment later with his sonic screwdriver, and swept it across the spot under several different settings. None of them told him anything other than it had been a temporal shift – and he realized then that the gizmo on the kidnapper's arm had been a fancy time jumper. However, there was no residual trail his sonic could follow.

 _"Dammit!"_ Swearing uncharacteristically – a habit the Doctor had never picked up – he shut the sonic off, then, whistling to Tock, he whirled about and headed at a dead run to the Island and the Torchwood facility hidden beneath it. The dog gave a final, questioning whimper and followed at his master's heels.

Bursting through the doors into the old smuggling tunnel now holding the dimension cannon, Jared abruptly halted, startled to see it empty of people. Where was everyone? Then he remembered – getting ready for his and Rose's wedding! He checked his watch – it was due to start in less than two hours. _And it will,_ he thought grimly, _if it takes the rest of my life to find her and bring her back in time._

* * *

 **Reinforcements**

Flicking switches and throwing levers with all the mad panic he used to employ at the TARDIS console, Jared brought the dimension cannon online and began searching out Rose's timeline. It wasn't hard to trace – suddenly it seemed that every timeline in their universe was converging on hers. Some stray memory was trying to get his attention, but he furiously batted it away as an unwanted distraction. Widening the view to include the parallel worlds, he then stretched out the time parameter to include the few past years – no sign. Before searching further back, he switched it to the future view. Even with his enhancements, the Cannon could only see about one hundred years into the future, and that increasingly hazy and wildly uncertain at the far end. _Hope to high heaven she wasn't taken further up than that._ If it couldn't find her, he'd search further back into the past. But then he didn't need to – her timeline's distinctive signature jumped out at him again, about fifty years ahead, and in the Alpha universe. (Stopping to think: _had she been at that time and place with the Doctor? No. This was her 'current' whereabouts._ ) He stared for a moment at the knot of activity represented – Rose's timeline was not only being reinforced somehow, but it seemed everything was bending around her there, too.

Whatever she had been dragged into, it was going to shake the multiverse.

And he wasn't going to let her face it alone.

Even though the Cannon could see far into past and a short way into the future, it couldn't send people or things across time, only to the same time in the parallel worlds. Not to worry, though – he knew how to solve that problem, as well. More correctly, he knew someone who could.

He double-checked the date in question to settle it firmly into his mind, then, setting the Cannon's destination to Alpha Universe, Cardiff, Torchwood Rift Hub, Jared dove through the gate and across the parallels.

With Tock, forgotten and unnoticed, right on his heels, as always.

And in the empty room they left behind, on the eight huge 3D plasma screens, and the myriad smaller displays, the swirls and lines and symbols that represented the worlds and the lives within them began to fade to black.

^..^

Jack Harkness was hip deep in his third favorite activity: tinkering. Specifically, working on the dimension cannon he was trying to develop to the hints and suggestions from Rose and Jared off in Beta World, on the rare occasions when the superphone they'd sent him actually worked. He wasn't sure why he was devoting so much time to the project; he wasn't at all certain he'd _ever_ get it to work. But after spending a few years in America, and a couple of decades traveling elsewhere and elsewhen, something kept drawing him back to this spot. So he'd rebuilt the Hub, refurnishing it with flotsam trawled and conned (his fourth favorite activity) from far corners of the universe which might prove useful someday. The Rift had been quiet these past few years; even the Weevils seemed to have abandoned Earth. Gwen and Rhys popped in occasionally _,_ but the Torchwood action team was only rarely needed these days. Their growing family captured all their attention; and that was just as it should be. Jack would never begrudge a child having his own parents on hand, alive and involved.

Something was wrong with the blasted timeline readouts again. They kept flickering in and out. He ducked his head back into the cabinet and sighed, then laid out flat, reached for a spanner without looking, and began troubleshooting once again. The cabinet doors had never yet been closed; he might as well take them off.

Without warning, a brilliant flash of light from outside the cabinet seared his eyes, while a rolling thunderclap deafened him. _Did somebody just set off a lightning grenade in here?_ Jerking upright, he inevitably koshed himself on the frame, adding some shooting stars to his visual field.

 _"JACK!"_ came a familiar yell, and he groaned in reply, rubbing his eyes to attempt to restore his sight. A pair of trainers at once appeared next to his legs, followed by four distinctly canine paws.

"Just shoot me already and get it over with," he continued groaning, "I'll feel better faster."

The owner of the trainers squatted down, and two familiar visages grinned at him in unison. Jack squeezed his eyes shut again, rubbed them harder, and tried again; this time the two melted into a single man. "Doc?" he tried cautiously.

"No. Jared."

"Ah. I was going to say your taste in companions has changed."

Following Jack's tipped head, Jared swung around, only then realizing that Tock had followed him. He frowned. "He's certainly as persistent as some of them, though." Sending a last glare at the unrepentant pooch, he turned back to Jack and gave him a hand up to his feet.

Jack kept his hold, changing it into a handshake while a wide grin split his face. "Damn, it's good to finally see you again, Jared!" Though they'd been talking through the Rift since receiving the superphone from Beta, neither had made the jump to the other world. He looked around expectantly, but was disappointed. "Where's Rose?" That she hadn't come with her fiance seemed impossible.

Jared's answering grin melted away, and his eyes turned steely. "She's been kidnapped, Jack. She was nabbed right in front of me by a goon with a time jumper, and then somehow brought back to Alpha. That's why I'm here. I need your help."

"You got it!" Without a second's hesitation, Jack reached for his Navy greatcoat draped on a nearby chair and slipped his gun into its holster. Then he held up his arm, prepared to punch in coordinates, when a thought hit him. "You aren't going to deactivate this on me again when we're done, are you?"

"No," was Jared's quiet, level reply. "I'm not the Doctor." As if in proof, he picked up the pistol that had lain beside Jack's and slipped it into his pocket.

"No, you're not." Jack agreed, then nodded. "Where and when?"

"Right here, fifty years up." He reeled off the date he'd memorized in Beta.

 _"Here?_ In _my_ Hub? Oh, no. Nobody takes over my place AND kidnaps my girlfriend into the bargain!"

^..^

Deciding (for once) to use a tiny bit of caution, the rescue party flashed into the future Hub within the side tunnel leading back to the cold storage vaults. Creeping to the doorway to the Hub proper, they peeked through the crack just in time to see Rose led away to the far side door, "down to the cells" Jack informed Jared in a whisper.

"How many men are out there?" came the growled response, Jared just barely keeping himself from jumping out immediately after his beloved.

"Three here, one with Rose, and..." Jack craned to hear, "a few more over in the 'break room' yonder." He indicated the man now leaning over the machinery on the far side of the Hub. "He looks like the one in charge. Do you recognize him?" Jared shook his head. "Me, neither. Those other two seated look like techs."

"That's all of them then," came from the man in charge. "We'll let things settle for a day, then contact my other selves again tomorrow. In the meantime, I think I'll have a talk with our... guests." He turned to follow after Rose.

Leaving Tock in the tunnel with a fierce whispered exhortation to lie down and be _quiet_ , the two time travelers took the opportunity to slip out of their hiding place and capture the two techs, making sure they weren't armed (they weren't) and then shoving them into the break room. There they used their human Trojan horses to get the drop on the half dozen goons sitting around the table, disarming them, then simply locking the door on the way out.

On the way back across the Hub proper, Jack halted momentarily, as he suddenly took in the mess: his beloved lair had been utterly _trashed._ Most of the equipment and workstations other than the Cannon itself had actually been smashed at some point; some of them showed signs of repair, at least far enough to tell what they were for, but mostly the shards had simply been added to a huge pile of flotsam against the tall concrete side wall.

Jared reached the door to the cells and realized Jack wasn't behind him. He turned around and gave a sharp Pssst!, jarring Jack out of his mini-trance. "What the HELL happened here?" Jack murmured as he reached his friend; Jared merely shrugged, his mind on more important questions.

They surprised the goon who'd escorted Rose out on his way back up; Jack simply punched him between the eyes before he could make a sound and he slid silently to the floor, Jared shoving him to one side as Jack leapt over him – and relieving him of the time jumper on his wrist, as well. Then he snuck after Jack in time to see him pistol-whip the leader at the cell door.

"Sorry, buddy, but the only one around here allowed to have a harem is me," was Jack's mysterious comment through the window set into the door. Jared started to clear his throat in annoyance, when a precious, familiar voice rang out from beyond it.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?"

Jared whipped out his sonic and whizzed it against the lock, then shoved Jack wordlessly to one side and ripped open the door. Just on the other side...

… stood Rose. She gasped out his name and fell into his arms and he pulled her in and held her so close so tight burying his face in her hair never let you go again never never...

An endless precious moment later, she pulled back to grin tearily up at him. "I knew you'd come after me. Though I admit I didn't expect to see you _this_ quick."

He started to grin back, but then his mind finally began to register what his reopened eyes were telling him from their periphery, and he looked around the bare rock cell in astonishment. One, two... SIX other Roses were staring at him – one grinning, the others agape in mixed hope and bewilderment. He glanced back down at the one in his arms and gulped.

"Well, you've got the right clothes on..." came his invitation for her confirmation.

She giggled, saying "So do you!", obliquely giving him HER method of identifying HIM from his twin: the cutoffs he'd been wearing to the beach. Then she leaned up to whisper in his ear, "We're _supposed_ to be getting married today. If we make it back in time." Suddenly she groaned, her head wilting onto his shoulder. "Oh, crap, Mum is going to MURDER me..."

His grin returned, greatly relieved. "OK. It's you."

* * *

 **Fading Echoes**

"Hey, you two, would you mind terribly if we got out of this jail cell?" Reich Rose's amused voice finally broke Jared and Rose apart, and he pulled her out the door then to one side to wave the other girls by. Jack took the opportunity to grab their erstwhile captor and heave him, still unconscious, into the cell in their stead, then Jared sonicked it locked again.

"Why is my gut telling me this is too easy?" Jack muttered to no one in particular, while following the group back up to the main room. There, the two men and seven identical women quickly established Who, When, Where, and Why – what little they knew – before Rose caught the utterly lost expression on the foreign-speaking woman's face.

"Jared, this me doesn't seem to speak English. She does speak a bit of German. Can you figure out what her language is?"

At the sound of his mistress's voice, Tock began barking from the side tunnel. "You didn't bring Tock too, did you?" Rose scolded Jared, glaring at him before she went to open the door and suffer his joyful greeting, then brought him back to the others.

"Oi! Not like I had any choice - he followed me!" Jared called after her, then turned to the Rose she'd indicated and, in basic German, got her to talk to him in her own tongue. Immediately his face lit up, and he began chattering back. "It's a form of Celtic," he informed the others, "closer to modern Welsh than anything, but quite a bit older." He turned back to Celtic Rose, who looked about to cry from relief, and slowly he began explaining the concept of parallel worlds and doppelgangers, with a side of time travel. From her return gestures and his nods, the others guessed that she understood. Finally she speared him with what was obviously a vital question.

"How do you get back home?" he repeated in English, then gestured to the dimension cannon's long console to one side. "With this."

"Jack, is this _your_ Cannon?" Rose teased him with a grin. "I'm impressed."

"Well, don't be impressed with me yet, sweetheart. I recognize the center cabinet there, but that's as far as I've gotten. I don't know if I'm going to build the rest of this or not – and I have no idea right now how to work it."

"We don't have time to mess around with it, Jack. Get one of the techs out here." Rose was already bending over the console, but she looked a little confused.

"What's wrong, love? It's not that different from ours, from what I can see," Jared asked as he joined her.

"I... Jared, I can't see the other parallels here. Just Alpha. No, wait... there..." her finger stabbed at one of the monitors, but then pulled back. "And now it's gone again." She turned to the tech now climbing the short flight of stairs in front of Jack. "What's wrong with this thing? What's not turned on?"

Giving them all a sidelong glance, the tech scurried over to start fiddling. He stopped, stared, then fiddled some more. "Uh... I can't see anything wrong. It's all on. But the parallels are gone."

Jared had whipped out his sonic again, and was giving the beast a thorough buzzing. Finally he clicked it back off again, his eyes huge.

"Jared?" Rose's voice was suddenly a frightened almost-whisper.

"There's nothing wrong with it. The parallels are closed off. Or trying to be. They're fading in and out, just like you saw."

As she looked from his face back to the console, Rose's face turned a few degrees whiter, and her jaw dropped. She'd finally focused in on the patterns that _did_ show, rather than the ones that were missing. "Jared... that's the same pattern we saw before. When all the timelines were centering on Donna, at the Crucible."

He looked again. "But now they're centered on YOU!" He looked askance at his life partner again. "What are you about to do now, Bad Wolf?" His mouth quirked, but then another thought burst through, the one that had been trying to get his attention back at their own Cannon. "I saw that pattern, too, back in Beta, before I jumped here."

The tech had been peering over their shoulders. "That's also the same pattern we saw before, when Corvantes decided to get you girls. He thought it meant you were keeping him from achieving what he wanted, by your influence on his twin in each parallel."

Jared gave the man a sharp glance. "But you didn't think so?"

The tech looked uncertain. He struggled a second, then, "Look, I've only been playing with this thing for a few weeks. I don't know what the patterns mean. I just... I didn't think it was as simple as he thought. He's kind of fixated on himself, you know what I mean?"

Jared gave a long sigh. "Well... until we find out what that _does_ mean, we'll just have to deal with what we _do_ know."

"But that leads us back to the original question. How are we all going to get back home now?" Rose asked, struggling to put aside his Bad Wolf question. Now that it was her in the metaphorical hot seat, she didn't know if she wanted it.

Jared leaned over the console on both fists, staring off into the middle distance for a long, long minute. Only Rose and Jack had any idea of how fast that awesome mind was speeding, considering and discarding innumerable possibilities.

Finally he sighed again, then turned and faced the room, leaning his hips back against the console. "There's only one way I can think of, now." Catching Celtic Rose's eyes, he said to her in her language, "I'll explain this to you next," and she nodded, unhappy but perforce to wait, and he went on in English.

"Think of time as a river," he began. "With a definite flow, and a known channel. Yes, it is known. Jack and I are both from the far future. We know how things are going to turn out at many different times in history. It already has, for us."

Pausing for a moment for that to sink in, he went on. "Now, consider this: a time traveler, like one of us, going back into the past, into a known spot along that river, and doing something different. Something that 'changes history', as it were. What kind of effect would that have? Well, most things that a single individual can do only make very tiny changes. The inertia of time's flow overcomes it easily – like dropping a pebble into a real river. A few ripples, and then it's as if nothing happened. Yes, there are some tiny effects, that impact only a few people, but it doesn't disrupt the entire stream. Things like... people or things disappearing without a trace, or – have you ever gone shopping, and you could have sworn that shop was on _this_ corner, but now it's over _there_? That could have been a time disruption. A little adjustment."

Again, he paused, then continued. "Now, think about dropping a big boulder in that river. Up to a certain point, time's inertia can still overcome it. The adjustments made after the waves meet again would be much more noticeable – LOTS of people having different memories, major mysterious happenings, but still... life would go on.

"Now imagine a _huge_ disruption. Make a big enough change, something extremely important, with deep ramifications, and time's inertia can't overcome it. Then... the time stream actually splits. Before that point, you have one world, one timeline. After that point, two."

"Or eight?" asked Rose, jumping ahead. "Is that why there are eight parallel worlds here that we've been watching?"

Jared nodded. "I've been studying them through our Cannon, in our world," he told the others. "I've traced them all back, and can tell you almost precisely when each one split off of this one, that we're standing in now. It really is the Alpha world – the first world."

"So what does that get us?" asked one of the other Roses.

"Well..." Uncharacteristically, Jared hesitated briefly, then forged ahead. "It means the only way I can think of to get you each back to your world is to use the time jumpers they used to bring you here to send you back to the point at which your timeline split off from this one. And you'll have to make the change yourself. I know that each point – what I used to think were Fixed Points," he said in an aside to Jack, "are actually major historical turning points, that could be – and were – affected by one person. If you go back and make it happen, then you'll ride the split away from us, and be back in your own timeline again. Then all you have to do is use the time jumper again to jump back to your own time - I can pre-program them for you – and you'll be home."

Dead silence reigned while that was digested. Then, "Wait a minute!" cried one Rose. "If we do that, then aren't _we_ MAKING the split ourselves? Making our own world, back in history? How can we do that? How can I go back and create the world _I came from_ , back before I was even born? If I don't make it, I won't even _BE_ born _TO_ make it!"

Jared grinned at her. "Rose... my people were Time Lords. They studied time for thousands of years. And even _they_ never figured out the answer to that paradox. Don't try to figure it out yourself; you'll only drive yourself insane. Just take it on faith."

"That's a hell of a lot to ask," she replied evenly.

His grin dribbled away. "Yes, I know it is. And I don't know what assurances I can offer you to trust me."

His Rose spoke up, addressing her doppelgangers. "How about this: I'm you. I'm as much you as I can be without being in your skin. And I traveled with this man for years, all through time and space, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's telling you the truth. I trust him – have trusted him, on many occasions – with my life, my sanity, my family, and my worlds. Both of them."

Jared knew he was staring at her, but couldn't help it. Her words from that long ago night on Reich World, as she was reeling from the Doctor's cruel abandonment, echoed from his memory: "How can I believe you? If you're _him_... how can I trust you?" He'd asked her to wait until he'd earned her trust again. And she had.

Some psychic echo of his churning thoughts might have brushed against her mind, because she turned her head and looked straight back at him... and smiled shyly, reaching for and taking his hand. Nobody else knew the significance of their entwined fingers, but they did. A mutual squeeze, and they turned back to face the others together.

"And what if we don't do it, whatever it is?" Reich Rose asked quietly. "What if we fail? Or refuse?"

"Then your world won't exist. And everyone you ever knew will never have been born. An entire world full of people, from the date of the split."

"And what about us, then? Me? What if I fail?" another asked the obvious corollary.

Jared thought for a moment, then sadly shrugged. "I don't know, Rose. I honestly don't know. You might... fade out, like the parallels here are trying to do, like your world will. Or you might continue to exist in this world, but be stuck here forever. I just don't know."

"Couldn't we try again?"

He shook his head firmly at that. "No. You're only going to get one shot. You CANNOT keep going back to the same time and place. Trust me on that." His Rose was nodding vigorous agreement, and the look on her face convinced the others.

"But then we can get back to our own times, our own lives, after that, right?" Another asked.

Jared nodded again. "I'll set the time jumpers up to signal you when the split has been made and you're in your own timeline, and like I said, I'll pre-set it to take you to the same day you were kidnapped. You'll just step back in to your life." Remembering, he took the time jumper he'd relieved the goon of, and asked the tech, "Where are the others?"

The tech nodded to a box at one end of the Cannon console, and Jared saw it contained several of the bulky wristwatches. He was just about to toss his in, as well, when something about it caught his eye, and he looked closer, frowning. "Where did you get these?"

The tech shrugged, then waved a vague hand across the room. "In that box, but over there, in that pile of trash."

"What is it, Jared?" Jack put in.

"I don't know. Something's strange about this. Are they yours?"Jack shook his head. "Have you ever seen this make before?" They were quite different from the leather strapped Jumper that Jack wore,

with straps of tiny silver links like chain metal and a fancy clasp.

Jack took the Jumper from Jared, and looked it over for a moment, then shook his head again. "I don't recognize them, but they seem standard from what I can see."

Another pause, then Jared shrugged. "Well, they obviously work." So he motioned Jack to toss that one in the box with its fellows, and turned back again to the girls.

Alpha Rose asked, "How can you get them to sense – and show – when the timestream has split?" Jack's time jumper had always fascinated her, even though she'd never seen it before; how could someone pack what a TARDIS did inside a wristwatch-sized gadget?

"The most obvious difference between the universes, the one the Cannon homes in on, is in the base harmonic frequencies, that reflect and control the passage of time as well. Each one that splits off goes infinitessimally faster. The backlight on the display is easiest to control; I'll set it to change color with the frequencies, going up the spectrum of visible light."

"Like a rainbow," she mused, and he nodded.

A few moment's silence, and Jack, sensing the tide turning, asked his friend, "Jared, are you sure you know each point?"

"As close as I could determine them from the other world, Jack – " he started to answer.

"Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute," broke in the tech. His expression was almost frightened. "What are your names again?" He pointed back and forth between the two men.

Jack stared, perplexed. "Why? Weren't we properly introduced? I'm Jack Harkness, and he's Jared Wolfe. And you are?" he turned it back, sarcastically polite.

"Joel Johnson?" the tech squeaked.

Jack smirked, saying aside to Jared, "There's too many J's in this room."

This time, Joel's jaw dropped completely open, catching their eyes again. "OK," he finally said, giving in. "I'm in waaaaay over my head." He turned to the Cannon console and opened a door at the far end, kneeling down and digging deep into the innards. Pulling out a dusty, greasy package, he walked back and handed it to Jared with an expectant air.

Bemused, Jared took it, and read aloud the message scrawled on the brown wrapper. "Joel: give this to Jared. From Jack. There's too many J's in this room." Eyebrows flaring, he looked his question at Jack, who shrugged.

"Beats me," he replied. "Whatever that is, I haven't done it yet."

Jared tore open the package, catching the half-dozen paperback books that fell out. Then he glanced at the titles on their spines and laughed. "History books. Just the right ones, too: one for each split point."

"So now we've got road maps," Jack laughed back.

Jared nodded, then turned to look at each potential world-changer. "Well?" he challenged.

A pause, and then one stepped forward. "Are you sure we can do this? Whatever it is?"

He looked straight back at her, and said significantly, reassuringly, with that knowing smile that only he could produce, "It's history, Rose. Your history. You already have."


	2. Act 2 Dance 1 Celtic Ceili

**Act Two: The Dance of the Roses**

 **Dance One: Celtic Ceili**

 **Detour**

Rhosyn Tyler _had_ been having a perfectly ordinary morning – right up till the moment the bulky stranger in the odd suit had grabbed her arm on Frenhines Buddug Stryd, jabbering at her in some outlandish tongue. She reacted automatically, tossing him to the side of the walkway with a practiced hip throw and then dropping into a ready stance. When he simply raised his eyebrows at her with a sour look, it took a moment, then her peripheral vision began to sink in, as well as the memory of that wild flash of light during the throw. Somehow they'd been transported from the busy, noisy, exhaust-fume-filled Stryd to a large open hayfield, the midday sun blazing stereotypically overhead.

She gaped about wordlessly as the stranger picked himself out of the newly mown hay (the scent of which, assaulting her nostrils, was providing the proof her eyes were trying to deny) and pulled out a mobile phone, jabbering into it with more of his incomprehensible gibberish. Then he grabbed her arm again – she was too shocked to protest this time – and the flash came again, this time accompanied by an intense squeezing-stretching feeling, as if she were being pushed and pulled through an invisible keyhole in an invisible door.

The hayfield disappeared again, replaced this time with the interior of a mad techno warehouse, complete with the clangs and beeps and oily metallic odor of Uncle Garvain's cargo ship. Yet another stranger was there, this time an intimidating character with vivid green eyes. He jabbered at her briefly with an air of quiet, menacing command while she stared silently back, then she was pulled roughly away and taken down a short flight of metal stairs to an obvious cell, for yet another mind-shattering shock.

For inside the cell were two other women, both of whom looked and sounded _exactly_ like Rhosyn herself. Well, "sounded" if you only listened to the timbre of the voices – their words were as mystifying as all the others she'd heard in the last few head-whirling minutes.

"What in the name of all the Gods and Goddesses is going ON here?" Rhosyn demanded sharply when she finally found her voice, but of course, the other women just shook their heads, their lack of comprehension of her words in return obvious.

Behind her, the door opened again, and yet another lookalike was shoved in, as well. She seemed to speak the same tongue as the others did, though. And again, and again, until there were six of them there.

Suddenly one of the others (she didn't know which one – how do you tell your own mirror images apart?) swore in response to something another had said – in Germanic! "Scheisse!"

Rhosyn whirled on the woman and nearly pounced. "You speak Germanic?" she asked in that tongue. _Please, please, let someone here be able to tell me what's going on!_ When the other woman replied with an astonished "Ja!" Rhosyn nearly cried from relief. _Thank the Goddess I chose Germanic in school instead of Frankish for my foreign tongue requirement._ She squashed the thought and concentrated on what was being said – something about different planets, alongside each other, each with a copy of herself? This didn't make any sense. There was only one Terra!

They didn't get any further, though, before the door opened yet again, and yet another woman shoved in. The Germanic-speaking duplicate seemed to recognize this one, somehow, and then she was turning back to Rhosyn to ask, haltingly, how many what? Oh, flashes of light and instantaneous movements they had taken to get here. She gave the answer, two, and the nonsense chatter continued.

Then the green-eyed man was there at the little window in the door, then another man, then the door was thrown open and yet a third man rushed in to scoop the last entry into his arms. Well, at least _somebody_ had been rescued.

After they'd all filed back up to the outer room, the last double turned to her rescuer, motioning towards Rhosyn herself. Then he, a tall, skinny stick with shaggy hair and large, expressive brown eyes, turned to her and asked in that same odd Germanic the other had used, "What have you say?" When she began to reply in the same tongue, he waved her off. "No, talk in your tongue to please."

"In my tongue? I speak the Queen's Gaelic - " That was as far as she got.

"Brilliant!" he replied in her own tongue at last, grinning like a maniac. "Now we can talk!"

His Gaelic was odd, but at last he was able to explain that she'd been brought to a parallel world, and forward in time some fifty years, to boot, by the green-eyed man, along with all these other versions of herself from yet other parallels. It was like something out of a bad science fiction movie, but she couldn't argue with the fact that she sure as uffern wasn't on Frenhines Buddug Stryd on her way to work any more. She'd just wait to see if his explanation held any wine.

A very confusing half hour later, after much jabbering and fiddling with the various consoles and wristwatches, he turned to her again at last. "Hello. My name's Jared, by the way."

"Rhosyn. Rhosyn Tyler."

"A Rhosyn by any other name..." was his nonsense reply. She looked at him sharply, and he shrugged. "Never mind."

While everyone else moved off to one side to continue their chatter, Jared led her to the console and sat her in one of the chairs, straddling the other, and began explaining what they'd discovered, and what they – and she – were going to have to do in order for each to return to her own life in her own world.

"I have to go back in time and change history? To my history?" Her head was whirling. She kept waiting for some hidden director to yell "Cut!", or everyone to begin breaking up and telling her she'd been Punked.

Jared was running a buzzing flashlight's beam across her hand, the across the wristwatches he'd laid out in a row, finally picking one of them up. Consulting again with her doubles, he at last turned again to her with a smile. "Ah. Now I know which parallel you're from. As I suspected, yours was split off first, the farthest back in history – that explains why your language is so different – English never really developed. So your job..." Reaching a long arm across the console, he fished a single paperback out of the bundle he'd been given earlier and handed it to her. "...is to keep her from falling into the trap that killed her in our world. You must keep her from going into the last battle outlined in that book."

Rhosyn stared back and forth from his face to the book for several long moments, eyes wide. Finally, she whispered, "You're not joking, are you? This isn't a prank?"

"No," came the solemn reply. "It's absolutely real."

She gulped. Little Rhosyn Tyler, nobody, shop girl and Akido black belt (her one real accomplishment) had to go try to save the life of her personal heroine. She stared again at the famous statue on the cover of the book, the one she passed every day on her way to work, depicting her world's greatest warrior queen, standing tall beside her warriors.

Queen Boudicca of the Iceni.

* * *

 **Strange Homecoming**

Rhosyn stumbled out of the lightning, staggering several steps before she found her feet again. The first thing that struck her was the near-absolute silence. After living all her life in noisy London, her ears almost rang with it. The next thing she noticed was the clean, fresh wind; not a hint of pollution or even smoke. All about her was a deep, green primeval forest, ancient and proud, its oaks and poplars reaching for the sky high above. She could almost sense their roots digging down towards the center of the Earth far below her feet.

 _No, Dilwen, I don't think we're in Llundain any more,_ she thought ruefully, remembering the famous line from the old movie.

She still wasn't at all sure she really believed this entire nonsense about going back in time and "fixing" history, but she didn't seem to have any choice but to go along with it for now. She'd just reserve judgment until something proved out.

Back in that mysterious techno-lair, she'd rifled through the book Jared had handed her, then tossed it back to him with a snort. "I can't read that!" Apparently it had been written in _his_ language, whatever that was, not hers. So, he'd walked her through the startlingly different path and outcome of Boudicca's Revolt in "his" history.

"We don't know exactly when these events happened, so we're going to have to send you back a few months early. At least that will give you time to learn the language, and get close to the people in the center of things."

She was abruptly shaken out of her reverie by a shout directly behind and above her. Whirling around, she threw herself sideways into the bank of ferns beside the pathway that materialized under her feet, out of the way of the troop of horses thundering down upon her. The leader furiously lashed his horse out of its attempted rearing check and it plunged on past, carrying his angry shout along. Rhosyn's jaw dropped in astonishment, partly at his incredible rudeness, but then, mostly at his attire.

The leader, and the other half-dozen riders behind him, were Roman soldiers, complete with armor, swords, and spears.

The next rider pulled up beside her and sat, grinning down at her as he tossed some remark off to his fellows. Rhosyn didn't understand what he was saying any more than she had anyone else save Jared all day. His meaning became all too clear a moment later, though, as he roughly motioned her up off the ground and onto his horse behind him!

She wouldn't have thought herself capable of further astonishment, but there it was. "Are you _insane_?" she spat out.

One of the other soldiers spurred past her would-be captor, shouting at him and motioning to their leader, now far down the path. The first soldier's face, flat-nosed and dark-skinned like a North African, twisted in fury at her intransigence, and his motions turned demanding. Another of his companions laughed, and maneuvered his horse around behind her, where he prodded her backside with his spear, and she sprang to her feet and whirled to growl at him. Unfortunately, doing so prevented her from seeing the third soldier slip off his own horse, and he grabbed her and tossed her up behind Flatface before she could turn to throw him. She wasn't even properly ON the beast, but he spurred it abruptly ahead, whipping it into a gallop before she could even scream, and she grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling off and being trampled by the horses behind.

Somehow she managed to hold on, and shifted her seat slightly to something a bit more secure, cursing the centurion all the while. His Roman saddle, a tiny wood-and-leather affair, didn't take up much of the horse's long back, so she was at least able to perch on the front side of the horse's croup. Unfortunately, that put her nearly directly atop his hipbones. Before they'd gone a mile, she was sure she'd be permanently crippled.

They caught up to the leader quickly, who didn't even glance around. Flatface hissed at her, apparently telling her to be quiet, then backed it up with a slice at her leg with the long ends of his reins. She got the message, and concentrated on hanging on.

The troop cantered out of the forest shortly thereafter, down a ridge and onto flatland. All around them were low, rolling hills, many of them with fields of grain growing in the sun. They dashed through several tiny settlements, bare handfuls of rude huts that looked to Rhosyn's eyes more like haphazard piles of straw. Finally, almost an hour later, with salt sea air tickling her nose, they pulled up in yet another settlement, this one rather larger. Twenty or thirty of the huts lay scattered about a hollow between three low hills, while on the fourth side, a long reach of water stretched out towards a distant bay.

The Roman leader barked out a shouted command, evidently calling for someone, ignoring the pigs grunting in the pen to their right as well as the handful of people staring sullenly at them. Rhosyn had time to catch the rude stares of a couple of them, wondering (well, not really; it was obvious) what they thought of her, there behind the flat-nosed soldier.

A commotion to her left brought her head around, then, as a tall man with greying hair strode forward towards the troop from between two of the huts. All Rhosyn's attention, however, was immediately captured by the woman striding behind him. As tall as her companion, her tawny-red hair tumbled roughly to her waist, while a golden torc glinting around her neck vied with her flashing eyes. Those eyes picked out Rhosyn at once, and she paused, startled, before saying something in a low voice to the grey-haired man. He, in turn, put an evident query to the troop leader, gesturing towards Rhosyn. That leader, turning in his saddle, spied her for the first time (he'd completely ignored the men riding behind him this whole time), and scowled. He barked a short command to Flatface, who drew a quick breath as if to argue, evidently thought better of it, and shrugged, then simply swept one muscled arm sharply back, knocking Rhosyn off the horse to land on her butt in the dirt, while he and the other soldiers snickered loudly.

The woman strode quickly to her side, reached down for her arm and helped Rhosyn to her feet. Her eyes swept down and up, taking in the blonde's very odd clothing with a bewildered expression, then she shook her head, gave her visitor a quick smile, and drew her back behind the grey-haired man. He had been engaged in a rapid conversation with the Roman leader, ignoring the women – a conversation that was turning a bit sour, to judge from his expression. He paused, took a deep breath, and visibly changed tactics, inviting the Roman down off his horse and into their hut with a gracious sweep of one hand.

The Roman refused, sneering haughtily, and gave a final short speech before dragging his horse around and plunging through the middle of his soldiers without a glance at them. The troop hurriedly pulled their own mounts aside, then whirled them in unison and thundered down the track behind their leader, back the way they'd come. Flatface shot Rhosyn a final piercing look and a malicious grin, his meaning clear: I'll be back.

The tawny-haired woman began quarreling with the man, Rhosyn still unable to understand a word of their speech. It _sounded_ familiar, as if it were close to her own Gaelic, but still... "Bah!" the woman finally cried, dismissing the subject, and turned to her sudden guest with a smile and an obviously welcoming speech, ending with a question?

Rhosyn shook her head, miserable. But one thing was clear. "Boudicca?"

Boudicca nodded, surprised that her name was known by this stranger.

Rhosyn laid a hand on her chest. "I'm Rhosyn. Rhosyn," she repeated, then snorted softly as spots of red against the nearest hut caught her eye. She walked over and captured one of the bush roses in her hand, then turned back to her hostess, gesturing between the flower and herself.

"Rhosyn. Like the flower."

Boudicca finally caught on and smiled, introducing her husband, Prasutagus, and the two young teenage girls who'd been hiding inside the hut during the soldier's visit, Fedelmid and Genofeva. Those two clustered about Rhosyn, reaching tentative hands towards her Tshirt and blue jeans and making wondering comments.

Suddenly it was all too much for Rhosyn. In the space of a few hours, she'd been snatched away from the only life she'd ever known, flung into the future, and now far into the remote, primitive past, face to face with people of legend; kidnapped twice over, pummeled emotionally and physically – and all without even a bite of breakfast. She clapped her hands to her mouth, mortified at the tears escaping her eyes, but unable to hold back the sobs.

Boudicca didn't know the source, but she knew someone stretched beyond the limits of endurance when she saw them. She shooed everyone else away, took her guest by the shoulders, gently drew her into her hut and stretched her out on the girls' bed. Rhosyn was barely aware of a fur coverlet being drawn up over her before consciousness fled, and she sank gratefully into the blessed darkness.

* * *

 **First Lessons**

Rhosyn woke up abruptly a few hours later, driven out of a deep sleep by twin needs of hunger and... let's just say a few inches further south. Disoriented, she peered around, finding herself inside a dim, shadowy hut made of reeds and stout sticks – and memory came flooding back.

 _So. I guess this is real, after all._ She took a deep breath, testing her reactions, and thought she might be steadier now. A glance down at her wrist showed the time jumper still there. She pushed the button Jared had shown her to activate it, and saw the backlight was still white; she was in the original universe ( _Alpha_ , she corrected herself absently).

An even more urgent signal from her nether regions made itself known, and she threw the animal skin to one side, climbed to her feet, and cautiously made her way to the door, pushing aside the wolfskin curtain and peeking out. One of the girls she'd been introduced to earlier was sitting nearby weaving a reed basket, apparently stationed there to await Rhosyn's rising. She smiled up at her strange guest, an open, friendly expression, and a bit more of Rhosyn's apprehension melted away. The universal gesture of crossed legs accompanied by a panicked look got the message instantly across, and the girl pointed around to one side of the hut, laughing. A quick visit to the tiny lean-to with its seat, bucket, and pile of mosses, and Rhosyn felt much better prepared to face the adventure that awaited.

On her return trip, she detoured down a few feet to the nearby stream to wash her hands. The girl stood, smiling another greeting, and waved Rhosyn down to a seat on a pile of turf beside her, then presented her with a trencher of food: flat bread baked from rough-ground grain, a hunk of smoked cheese, and two deep purple plums. A skin flask on the ground between them proved to hold sweet, fresh water. As she began to satisfy her famished tummy, Rhosyn and her hostess, who turned out to be Genofeva, the younger of the two girls, began those first, halting, laughing attempts to communicate. With time to ask and listen closely, Rhosyn found many words were somewhat familiar, related to the words of her own language. She could hear how closely the two languages were related: distantly – two thousand years distant, after all! – but still related.

When she'd finished eating, and thanked Genofeva, the latter cheerfully brushed it off, then stood, carefully stowed the trencher and her half-finished basket in the hut, and led Rhosyn off across the village and out towards the inlet. The sun had slanted while she slept, and now, midafternoon, Rhosyn used it to get a sense of direction: the inlet was north of the village. She knew she was in what would become Norfolk, so, judging from the temperature, it seemed to be late spring-early summer.

As they walked, odd sounds came to her ears from ahead: unworried wordless shouts, grunts, and the arrhythmic clang of metal on metal. When they topped a small bank, she realized her guess had been right: ahead was a relatively flat space of hard-trampled ground, being used as a practice arena. A burly man, obviously an expert warrior, was even now crossing swords with Genofeva's older sister, Fedelmid, while Prasutagus, Boudicca and a half-dozen other villagers watched and cheered or jeered from the low banks surrounding the arena. The two girls, fast becoming friends, sat down next to Genofeva's parents, and Genofeva gave them a rapid run-down, apparently stressing Rhosyn's lack of familiarity of their own language, so when they included her in the conversation, they made evident pains to speak plainly with much gesturing – and laughter. The courtesy and abundant friendliness warmed her to the core, melting away more of her anxiety.

A few minutes later, Fedelmid came over and flopped down, panting; apparently her "lesson" was over. Her teacher followed and was introduced to Rhosyn: Caradoc. He grinned broadly at her, and invited her to take a turn on the sparring ground. Rhosyn's jaw dropped, and she tried to demur, but everyone encouraged her to stand, Fedelmid offering up her own battered training sword. She could read both friendliness and a bit of challenge in their eyes, and knew it was something of a test, as well. One she couldn't afford to fail. She swallowed hard, picked up the sword, and tried to look confident – a heavy task, since she'd never held such a weapon before in her life.

 _("Let's see how much of a wolf she really is," Prasutagus challenged his wife, referring to the clan's totem and self-identity. Boudicca simply smiled. This little she-cub was strange, to be sure, but there was something about her... She had insisted on the girl being given honored guest status, at least until they found out more about her, sensing that she had a place in the clan's future.)_

Rhosyn stood awkwardly, holding the sword before her in both hands. She managed to parry two or three slow and well-telegraphed swings by Caradoc, but knew she wouldn't last long. Sure enough, it took less than a minute before he beat down one of her own wild return swings, spun quickly around, and swatted her behind as she stumbled past. And again, and again – within a few minutes, she'd been thoroughly bested, and everyone knew it.

 _("If she's a wolf, she's a bad one," was Prasutagus' comment. "Give her time," replied Boudicca.)_

 _Enough_ , thought Rhosyn after getting swatted the fifth or sixth time. She was suddenly, thoroughly ticked off, but she felt herself slip into the icy concentration so familiar from her Akido competitions. She turned to face Caradoc squarely, flung the sword so it planted itself point down into the turf a few feet away, and dropped into daiichi stance, one foot before the other, a quarter turn to the side, hands raised before her – and waggled her fingers in invitation.

Of course, he pointed to her sword in astonishment, but she merely arched her eyebrows and wiggled her fingers again. The onlookers were silent, as perplexed as he at her actions. So, shrugging, he lifted his sword overhead and came at her at half speed, expecting her to lunge for the weapon...

...and a second later, found himself flat on his back on the turf, gaping in surprise. Stunned silence from the crowd was broken a second later with jeers at Caradoc for napping in the middle of the lesson. He sprang to his feet and charged Rhosyn again, faster – and again found himself thrown to the ground. And again, and again – he couldn't touch her.

 _Now, THIS is more like it!_ Rhosyn thought with a grin. Caradoc slowly climbed to his feet once more, but didn't charge, instead simply stared at her, the meaning of his bewildered question obvious.

Suddenly, Boudicca was there, too, with an intense, respectful request. "Show me how you did that." As the rest of the onlookers gathered around, Rhosyn smiled and turned back to Caradoc, asking him to attack – slowly! And what is that word in your tongue? And how do I count to four? Combined language and martial arts lessons continued the rest of the afternoon – by the time the sun touched the western hills, everyone had learned a basic hip throw, and how to land without getting hurt, as well as dozens of new words crammed into Rhosyn's head.

"Still think she's a bad wolf?" Boudicca asked her husband on the way back to the village, and this time Rhosyn both overheard and understood the words. "We are all wolves in this clan," Boudicca explained at her quizzical look, then turned back to Prasutagus.

He was giving Rhosyn a sharp, measuring look, and she held her breath unconsciously, waiting for his verdict. "No," he finally admitted. "Not bad at all." And he himself held back the wolfskin curtain, ushering his guest inside with a ceremonious wave of his hand.

* * *

 **Turning Points**

The next few weeks passed in the proverbial whirlwind, as Rhosyn settled into life in the Iceni clan as if she'd been born to it. They all worked the various tasks of farm, field, bay, and hearth in the morning, then each afternoon gathered at the practice arena for mutual lessons in sword, spear, and basic Akido. None of them became an expert in the others' martial art by any stretch of the imagination, but Rhosyn did progress in their language, until she could chatter away with Boudicca's two daughters almost as fast as they did, and with just as much laughter. The life may have been hard and primitive, but it was also full of song, beauty, friendship, and joy. She refused to tell them about her past, however – not that they would have believed a bit of it – saying only (once she learned the words) that she was on a quest, led here by her goddess from a distant tribe. This, the Iceni understood, and let her be. All would be revealed in the fullness of time.

She did learn the identity of the Roman whose escort had brought her here: the Procurator, Catus Decianus. Apparently (as Fedelmid whispered to her late one night), a few years earlier Prasutagus had borrowed money from several Roman sources, when he'd seen the way the wind blew and became a client king of the Roman Emperor. Now the money was all spent, having imported better farming tools, good breeding stocks of pigs, cattle, and horses, even timber for piers and houses from the Catuvellauni lands to the west (the Iceni having no good forests of their own). His people's lives were undoubtedly better, and many had begun acquiring jewelry and other items of more intrinsic value, but there was no cash money to begin repaying the loans. Catus Decianus kept assuring him that it was no problem, but something in the man's manner left everyone uneasy about the prospect – especially Boudicca, who had never trusted him from the start, and had argued against the loans.

The joyous time came to a crashing halt, however, the morning Boudicca woke the entire village with a piercing, keening wail: Prasutagus had died without warning in his sleep.

Over the course of the following week, Rhosyn met many of the Iceni, as the entire countryside seemed to converge on their village for the funeral rites for their dead king. Boudicca stepped into the role of leader, in accordance with Prasutagus' will, which left his kingdom jointly to her and the Roman Emperor in hopes of securing the tribe's future. Rhosyn was not the only one with a twinge of fear for that future, even if she was the only one with sure foreknowledge of the looming disaster; she kept that to herself, making her own plans in secret.

Four days after his death, Prasutagus' body was given to the flames on a massive pyre out in the delta. Thousands of his people witnessed and mourned, standing silently in small boats and on every dry hillock within a half-mile, while Boudicca and her daughters sang the farewell songs. Rhosyn, standing still and silent behind them, let her tears flow freely for the man she'd come to respect for his wise leadership and genuine warmth and curiosity about the world.

The next morning, heads still pounding after the huge funerary feast the night before, the converged tribe began dispersing back to their homes, and life tried to return to normal. Rhosyn spent the next few days as close as she could to Boudicca and the girls – not difficult, as she had been accepted into their family, and that family naturally stayed together while processing their grief and trying to return to a normal life. So the four of them were a fair distance from the village, gathering crabs and eels from their traps in the marshy delta into their little punt, when Keridwen frantically hailed them from a distance. She turned and ran back towards the village before they could reach her on the shore, so the four women simply followed as fast as they could, mystified.

As soon as they topped the slight hill between and the village came into view, Rhosyn's heart filled with dread. The tiny hamlet was crawling with Roman soldiers, slashing into each reed house and tossing everything of value into a pair of large wagons, herding the animals into a single pen – and all the villagers into another, at swordpoint. A few of the men – Rhosyn's pupils – showed signs of having attempted to fight the soldiers off: some bloody shirts, a couple of arms hanging uselessly, and one stretched out in the mud, arms and legs akimbo, unmoving. And sitting idly on his horse, watching over all, was Catus Decianus.

Boudicca drew a deep breath and started towards the Procurator, but Rhosyn sprang forward and grabbed the Queen's arm, dragging her around. "Boudicca, no! NO! I beg you, don't go down there! Don't confront him!"

Boudicca's eyes bugged in outrage. "You expect me to stand by while my people are robbed of all their belongings?" she hissed at this heretofore beloved young stranger – suddenly she was reminded just how much of a stranger she was. She jerked her arm out of Rhosyn's grip, restraining herself from adding a slap.

"Please, my Queen!" Rhosyn dropped into formal language. "Please listen to me. If you go there, something terrible will happen! You'll be..." She stopped abruptly, searching her memory for the words, cursing herself mentally for not making the point of learning them. But how do you bring up the concept of such horrible crimes, how do you explain why you're asking?

Boudicca didn't give her the chance. She snorted, disgusted, and turned regally back towards the village, her long legs covering the short distance in long, measured strides – a Queen does not run. Rhosyn had no choice but to follow miserably, trailing resolutely behind Fedelmid and Genofeva, determined to do what she could to protect them, at least.

"Procurator!" Boudicca's voice rang out when she was close enough. "What is the meaning of this?"

Decianus' head turned lazily, eyeing the redhead with contempt. "I do not explain myself to _women_ ," he sneered, centuries of Roman misogyny dripping from the word.

Boudicca stopped with a jerk, offended to her core. "Then perhaps you might have the courtesy of speaking to a Queen about the condition of her people," she hissed icily back.

"Rome does not recognize that status," came the shocking reply. "These people are now the subjects of the Roman Emperor, in accordance with your late husband's will."

"That will left these lands to ME, along with the Emperor!"

"As I said. Rome does not recognize the status of mere women. Women are not fit to rule."

Reeling from that shock, Boudicca grabbed at another straw. "Then why does the Emperor seek to strip _his_ subjects of all their worldly goods and throw them into abject poverty?"

"This is not for the Emperor. This is to repay the loans given to Prasutagus by good, upstanding Roman citizens. Those loans have been called in, and must be repayed in full, immediately."

"You said..."

"I said _nothing_ to you, woman! Enough of this!" Now that his decrees had been given, Decianus had no more use for the conversation. "Time to teach you your place!" He gave a signal, which in retrospect must have been prearranged, and several of the Roman soldiers who had been slowly maneuvering around her sprang forward and grabbed Boudicca before she could react. They dragged the shocked, struggling woman to a nearby post and bound her hands above her head, then one used a knife to cut the back of her tunic to her waist.

Coming out of a seeming trance, Rhosyn jerked forward, ready to go to the rescue, but found her way blocked by a line of soldiers. She'd been concentrating so hard on Boudicca that she hadn't seen the remainder of the company form a circle around the action, facing outwards, swords drawn. Yes, this had been planned in advance. Another ring still surrounded the villagers, watching aghast from their paddock, muttering and yelling but helpless to resist.

The Centurion's whip sang through the air and landed on Boudicca's bare back with a resounding crack, but she refused to scream aloud, swallowing the sounds as best she could. Again and again, until her back was crisscrossed with bloody stripes from the dozen lashes. When they finally stopped, all that could be heard were muffled sobs from the watching Iceni.

Rhosyn was transfixed, horrified, unable to think. It's one thing to read about someone being whipped to a bloody pulp. It's quite another to actually see it happen, a dozen yards in front of you, to someone you loved and admired. And so, her planning came to naught, for she hadn't seen the three soldiers sneak around behind her and the girls. Another signal from the Procurator, and a rock descended on her head, and the world went black.

^..^

Genofeva's scream from somewhere nearby brought her groggily out of one kind of darkness and into another. She turned her head towards the sound, but it was stopped by the leg of an overturned stool. She was lying on her back on the rough straw-strewn floor of one of the houses. More screams, from two throats – Fedelmid? – and she tried to get up to go to them – just as she realized her clothing was being cut away. Then her old would-be captor Flatface was on top of her, and her screams joined the others.

* * *

 **First Battle**

At last the nightmare was over. Rhosyn stirred weakly, rolled painfully to her side, and slowly gathered herself into a crouch so she could creep to Fedelmid's side. She tried to pull the weeping girl into her arms and reach beyond to Genofeva at the same time, but couldn't reach her. Suddenly Boudicca was there, ignoring the blood still sluggishly oozing down her naked, lacerated back, her shattered expression matching those of the three girls. She pulled her younger daughter to the tiny group, and they huddled together, weeping in each others' arms.

When all their tears were spent, Boudicca raised her head and stared into each of their eyes in turn. They could see the wolf returning, wounded but undefeated. "I promise you," she told them, low and fierce and deadly. "I promise you. This will not stand. This will NOT stand."

^..^

The next few weeks passed in a blur for Rhosyn, as dark and determined as the previous stretch had been joyous. She threw herself into weapons training, forsaking Akido, spear, and even learning to handle the small war chariots she'd enjoyed before, to concentrate on her wooden sword which stood in during practice for the new iron one glinting balefully beside her cot, a dreadful gift from her hostess. She sparred daily with anyone who would face her, one after another, until she was exhausted, then she grabbed a bite to eat, unheeding of what she crammed into her mouth, laid down for a few fitful hours, then was up at dawn to pace the yard again. She ignored the war councils and all the messengers and chiefs coming and going, just as she ignored the bruises and other wounds that slowly, painfully healed, while Boudicca gathered her people and joined with her neighbors to create a massive army.

Whenever she stopped moving for a few moments, the memory of the horrific violation and injustice done to her – so rare in the egalitarian world she'd come from – went screaming down her senses again. She couldn't process it. She wavered constantly between disbelief that it had happened at all and rage at the brutal, misogynist Roman Empire that had so casually taken its pleasure and then discarded her like a used rag. And she vowed, again and again, that this rag would bite back. The bitter irony of her becoming a victim of the very violence she'd come back to try to stave off vied with the madness of her joining the retribution – and whenever her thoughts came to that, she fled them, seeking refuge once again in the mindnumbing, repetitive, exhausting exercise of training muscles, nerves, and tendons in their new tasks.

The others in the camp springing up around the village gave her respectful room, this strange young she-wolf who prowled unseeing through their midst. A palpable cloud of Otherness hung around her, made menacing by the single-minded devotion towards gaining her revenge on those who had wronged her. They whispered, wondering, about her past: none could place her accent nor her strange ways. And slowly a new belief arose among the Iceni and the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni, that this flaxen-haired visitor would led them to victory, as much as their fierce warrior queen. Had she not already begun to teach them a new way of fighting? The few Akido maneuvers she'd taught the villagers were taught in turn to others, who taught others, until most of the three tribes knew at least some, and some of them in turn began incorporating them into their own dances with sword and spear, creating a new style of fighting.

At last, all was in readiness, from top to bottom, and the word went out. In the morning, the massive army began its march south to the Roman garrison town of Camulodunum.

^..^

A scant half-mile north of the town, they halted briefly, and the leaders heard their spies' last reports: Suetonius, the Roman governor, had indeed taken most of the Legions across Britain a few weeks before, and was reportedly laying waste to the sacred druid's isle on the western shore. Boudicca allowed that bit of inflammatory news to spread, and spread it did, ripping through her army and inciting them to even greater heights of rage against their oppressors. As the council ended, Boudicca nodded at Rhosyn to come with her on her chariot.

Just before she stepped up, a stray memory struck Rhosyn, and she looked up at the Queen. "Before we attack, send a small group of riders down to the seaport below Londinium. Tell them to simply wait there, and see what fish they can catch."

Boudicca was mystified, but there was no time to discuss this strange whim, so she turned to one of her lieutenants and told him to see to it, and he hurried off. Then they climbed aboard the chariots, and formed up into a broad column for the final advance. The brief pause had refreshed the attackers, but it had also given warning to the remnants of the Legion left behind to supplement the town's guard of retired soldiers. A hundred or so Roman soldiers were formed up before the gates, a pitiful showing with no hope of stopping the tide. The chariots simply rolled right through them, leaving the pickings for the foot soldiers behind.

There wasn't room for two fighters to swing their swords on the small chariot as well as the driver, so before they reached the action, Rhosyn lightly jumped off, and found herself overtaken quickly by the first ranks of the mob. By the time she reached the gates, the action, such as it was, was mostly over, and she barely registered the bodies she leaped over. Then, suddenly, a figure from her nightmares loomed before her: metal armor, a small shield, and the gladius, the short sword that had conquered the world, clenched in one hand. One Roman soldier was still among the living, and his snarling gaze had just picked out a short, blonde figure among his enemies as his target.

For all she'd been working to learn swordfighting so relentlessly these last few weeks, here in the moment of truth, it was her former training that took over her muscles and reflexes. She dropped her sword in the dust without thinking, stepped in past the descending overhand slice, grabbed the soldier's wrist and elbow, turned and threw him to the ground. Taken utterly by surprise, the wind completely knocked out of him by the fall onto his own armored back, he fought for both wits and air, unable to move for a moment.

It was his last. Rhosyn's sword lay beside him. She scooped it back up without thinking, reversed it, and stabbed it down with all her fury through his neck and into the ground beneath, before she could blink.

Time stopped completely still, shuddered, then dragged itself limping on. Rhosyn stared down at the spurting red, transfixed, horrified. She had taken a life. The rage she'd been living on since the assault drained out through her hands and feet, puddling with the soldier's blood in the brown dust of the road, while all around them, the Briton warriors streamed past and into the town.

"I didn't even know his name," she whispered. His sightless eyes stared into hers, accusing. He was human now, a man from far away, with hopes and dreams which had just died with him, two thousand years before she was born.

His blood had finally stopped before she gathered her wits enough to let go of the sword and step back. She stared around in renewed horror, feeling as though she were awake for the first time in weeks – and finding herself in greater, waking nightmare. Boudicca's army had all passed through the gates and were ransacking the city, leaving her alone with the dead.

Only half aware of what she was doing, Rhosyn drifted through the gates and down the street, staring at the carnage. Bodies were everywhere, left where they had fallen: men, women, children. The stench of blood – and other, even less attractive odors – permeated the dusty afternoon. From all sides now came screams, and crashes, and shouts. Smoke was already rising from dozens of spots – the sack of Camulodunum would end with it burned to the ground.

She came to an open square and halted, unable to continue. Not a living soul was in sight. Her eyes came to rest on the small figure of a child near her feet – a boy, not more than eight years old, his throat slit, while nearby his mother's corpse reached out towards him, even in death.

"You do not fight, Rhosyn?"

It took a few extra seconds for the words to penetrate her fogged mind, then she whirled about to stare at Boudicca standing a few feet away, her long red hair wild around her shoulders, her sword dripping blood into the street.

"Fight?" She was incredulous. "This isn't a _battle_ , Boudicca. This is a _massacre_. These people aren't my enemy. The _Romans_ are the enemy – the soldiers, the commanders, the bureaucrats. Not these people. Boudicca, these are _Britons_ , not Romans. They're just ordinary people, just trying to live their lives as best they can. They're..."

Boudicca had been growing angrier by the word, and now she cut Rhosyn off. "They lived the Roman way, in Roman towns, towns build on _our_ land, stolen from _our_ people. They were Romans, and all Romans are the enemy," she hissed.

Rhosyn stepped to one side and pointed at the pitiful corpse of the child. "This boy was not a Roman, Boudicca. Neither was his mother. They were _Britons_. And I will _not_ take part in their slaughter."

With that, she whirled back around and marched swiftly away, leaving Boudicca gaping at her back, then down at the boy sprawled in the dirt at her feet. Rhosyn didn't stop, but half-ran out through the gates and across the fields to the far edge, disappearing into the forest beyond. She didn't return for two days, after the fighting was over, after the siege of the remaining few soldiers inside the temple ended in conflagration, after the fires that leveled the town and served as the citizen's giant mass funeral pyre had gone out, smoldering in the ashes of the once-thriving town.

* * *

 **Advance**

Rhosyn drifted silently through the massive Briton encampment north of Camulodunum's smoking ruins, searching for Boudicca's tent. The army was obviously breaking camp, packing up their booty and sharpening swords, shouting and laughing, their high spirits in stark contrast to her own dark, solemn demeanor. They parted and let her pass with bewildered, skittish glances – a few carefully hiding hand signs that warded off evil spirits and bad fortune.

Boudicca paused in the act of throwing her small bundle onto her chariot, catching her breath and then letting it out in a huge sigh of relief. "Rhosyn! There you are!" she cried, then beckoned the solemn blonde to follow. She led her a short distance to a makeshift picket line of rope strung between two trees, untied the lead of a beautiful snow-white compact mare, and presented her to Rhosyn with the air of a general making an offering to the gods.

"No more massacres," she said quietly, her throaty voice making it a promise, then added "... of _Britons_. We make war on Romans, and Romans alone."

Rhosyn drew a long, careful breath, gazing into the Queen's eyes as if measuring her sincerity, then nodded, a tiny grateful smile teasing the corners of her mouth. She accepted the lead and began stroking the pony's neck, eyes flaring in appreciation: the mare was magnificent. Turning back, she let her brilliant smile loose, and the sun rose again over the gloomy British landscape. "Thank you."

Boudicca returned the smile, but hers was tinged with perplexity. "Some day, little she-wolf, I hope to find out who you really are and where you came from – and how you managed to become my conscience."

Her "conscience" merely laughed, and they both turned back towards the chariot, Rhosyn leading her pony. "Does she have a name?" she asked.

"None that I know of," was the chuckling reply. "You should name her yourself."

Rhosyn thought about it, dreamily, while she quickly brushed the pony and then strapped on the small riding saddle offered by Fedelmid. "I don't know how to say it in your tongue," she confessed at last. "When there is no war, no struggle, and everyone lives in friendship..."

"Heddwch," came the reply. And so Rhosyn's pony got her name: Peace.

^..^

It turned out that the army was indeed on the move, riding and jogging swiftly up the road towards Durovigtum to meet the Ninth Legion marching south to Camulodunum's relief, not yet knowing of its destruction. Boudicca had sent out riders to scout the road, and catch anyone hurrying the news of that destruction to the troops. They met those riders again a few hours out, and received the recon reports with glee: a few miles ahead the road ran through a dense forest, narrowing to a track only two soldiers could march down abreast. Quintus Cerialis, Commander of the Ninth, still ignorant of what lay ahead, was leading his men into the perfect ambush.

Leaving the bulk of the army in a valley to the south, out of sight and hearing, Boudicca hid her two thousand most experienced warriors deep in the underbrush on either side of the track, stretched out along an entire mile, making sure they all knew their orders. They were to keep absolutely silent until the last Roman soldier had entered the northern end of the trap, which was set just below the crest of a small hill, where the road turned sharply and dove into the deep green shadows.

It worked perfectly. Two of Boudicca's men, stationed high in a pair of old oaks atop the hill as lookouts, blew their horns when the road behind the Romans was empty, and the forest came alive with shouting warriors and flashing steel and whistling arrows. The Legion never stood a chance. It was over in minutes. Not a single Briton was lost; not a single Roman survived.

^..^

From there they turned south, headed for the Roman capital, Londinium. Over the three days required for the march, Boudicca made certain that everyone knew of the change in the battle orders: no Britons were to be killed unless they offered armed resistance. Instead, they would be allowed to flee the town before it was burned to the ground like Camulodunum. Boudicca was more concerned about the Legions stationed there; had Paulinus had time to return with them from Mona?

Then, just before the battle, they got the word: Paulinus himself had come – and gone again, taking the few troops which had been guarding the city with him, back towards the west. It seems the Legions were still a few days away. He'd abandoned the city to its fate, and the citizens were streaming out of it in panic. Boudicca let them go, sending her army through the city to loot it to their heart's content, chasing the rest of the residents out before it was put to the torch. A few hundred Roman bureaucrats and "nobility" were rounded up, however, and swiftly executed, their bodies piled in the large wooden temple of Apollo – in his "incarnation" as Caesar – on the east side of the central square.

Boudicca, supervising the operation from horseback, accompanied by her daughters and Rhosyn, was disappointed that her former nemesis, Catus Decianus, was not among them. But then, in a moment of pure, sweet timing, the group of "fishermen" she'd sent to the seaport on Rhosyn's behest came through. Riding their horses into the main square from the south, they came dragging a bound – and furious – prisoner on foot: Decianus.

"He was trying to escape to Gaul, Queen Boudicca, on one of their ships," the captain reported with a grin. "With his treasure, too." A small cart, loaded down with an obviously heavy chest, was well guarded by his men.

Drawing herself regally erect, Boudicca paced her horse forward to gaze disdainfully down upon her prisoner, sweet reversal of their positions the last time they were face-to-face – in more ways than one.

"So..." she said at last. "Rome does not recognize the rights of mere women, does it? Well, this woman... does not recognize Rome." She paused a moment to let that sink in. "For my back, and for my daughters' honor, you owe me a blood price, Roman. I shall have it from your box of treasure. But I shall also have it... from your blood."

Glancing at the captain, she jerked her head towards the temple, already stinking with blood. "Put him on the altar."

He didn't go to his sacrifice willingly or quietly, but screamed and struggled. They tied him down securely upon the wooden altar to his god, leaving him ungagged.

Then, while Rhosyn watched impassively from her pony, neither approving nor objecting, the Queen and her daughters took up torches and set the temple – and the town – ablaze.

* * *

 **Reflections**

Verulamium, Venonae, Letocetum. The Romanized towns were strung out, beadlike, along the Roman road stretching northwest from Londinium that would one day be called Watling Street. One by one they were abandoned, the inhabitants fleeing for their lives with whatever they could carry, then picked over and burned to the ground by Boudicca's army as they chased Paulinus and the two legions he commanded. Some of those now homeless flocked to her banner: slaves, servants, Britons whose lives had not been "improved" under their Roman masters. Most scattered into the countryside, scrabbling for refuge among the farms and villages that had been supporting the towns. Some – Roman citizens and tradesmen who had been transplanted into Britain from elsewhere in the vast Roman Empire – lay low until the army had passed, then began trudging back towards the Channel and the continent, ready to return from whence they'd come. The Auxiliaries and small troops of soldiers which had been detached to guard and police those towns had been swept up by Paulinus on his way through scant days before, leaving them defenseless.

Thus, the two growing armies marched across the island of Britain towards Viroconium. Rhosyn, of course, did not take part in the sackings or the minor skirmishes engendered when they came across small reconnaissance parties or supply wagons bound for the Legions; she hadn't even bothered to replace the sword she'd left in the neck of the single man she'd killed. Instead, she sat on her pony, Peace, and watched from a distance, lost in contemplation of the strange fate that found a shop girl from the twenty-first century attempting to make history two thousand years before she was born.

She knew from her own reading, long before her adventure began (half of her pitiful single-short-shelf "library" comprised biographies of Boudicca; the other half other warrior queens in history) that even now Emperor Nero was sitting in Rome, beset and besieged on all sides, and seriously considering writing his conquest of Britain off as a lost cause and pulling his legions out in order to send them to other fronts closer to home. All the Britons had to do was simply hang on long enough, and cause enough debilitating damage and harassment, and they would win out by default. (Why, she suddenly wondered, wasn't she herself mentioned in those books on her shelf? She made a mental note to read them again when she returned – _if_ she returned – to see if there were any coded hints to her presence.)

Her mind often wandered on those long marches to the other six copies of herself, wondering about the worlds they had come from. What were those worlds like? How were their lives different from her own? The fact that her own timeline had been split off earliest meant it had followed a completely different path for two long millennia. All of the others even spoke the same language, so remote from her own that she hadn't understood a word. What, she wondered, had happened in those other timelines? Had this Roman invasion, apparently successful in the alternate timeline, the root of all those others, really made _that_ much of a difference?

Apparently so, she decided. The Britons in her world had learned the lessons of this one attempted invasion very well, and put them to good use again and again. Never again would an invader gain even this much of a toehold: building roads, cities, and installing governments. Angles, Saxons, Danes, Normans – all of them would find slim pickings and a coastline bristling with defenders, and give up the idea in short order. Britain had never become a world power, but neither had she been left behind, isolated and insular, in the modern world. Boudicca and every ruler thereafter had sent countless wise and learned men and women abroad to learn everything they could about the world and the people in it, bringing back philosophies, inventions, knowledge, science, animals, food, goods of every kind – and especially methods of government and warfare, particularly defensive warfare. No one would ever colonize the British Isles – in fact, the Basque kingdom of Euskadi in northern Spain was the only other country in Europe to equal their long, unconquered history. The Britons had been dubbed a "nation of copycats" again and again, which bothered them not one bit; they were free, and from their island picked and chose the best of everything the world had to offer. But only the best; they also resisted the invasion of desert gods whose misogynist prophets stained their followers with iron patriarchy. In Rhosyn's time, Britain was the most peaceful and egalitarian society on Earth, having grafted choice bits of Eastern philosophies onto their native druidism.

History... she wondered again at the two men who had claimed to be time travelers from the future, Jack and Jared, and the version of herself who had evidently traveled with them. Had she faced situations like this before? What had she done? _Probably something spectacular.._. The ease with which that other Rhosyn ( _Rose_ , she corrected herself, remembering the translation of her name that all the others bore) had taken command of the situation had sent streaks of envy down Rhosyn's back. More than anything else, she wanted to live up to that (guessed-at) example. She wanted to do something spectacular, something world changing. She wanted to make a difference.

And just as much, she wanted to go home. Her thighs and butt were saddle sore, she missed the warm, bright, comfy flat she shared with her Mum, she wondered what was going on in her favorite TV shows, she would kill for a pizza, let alone a hot cuppa, and her narrow twin bed piled high with bright comforters and pillows seemed more and more like her idea of heaven with each passing night spent miserably shifting around on the hard, cold ground. The only thing she didn't particularly miss, oddly, was her boyfriend, Ciaran, the good-for-nothing mechanic. (The mental image of Jared and her mirror image, so obviously half of each other's whole, paraded again before her eyes, making new streaks of envy. _Will I ever find someone to love me like that?_ ) And her job. _Going to have to make some changes in that department when I get back. Back to school for one thing. I'm ready for it now._

And often, too, her thoughts turned to the mysterious stranger who had started it all, and who apparently she was supposed to affect in her future: Paul Corvantes. What could she, lowly shop girl, do to change the future path of such a strong, compelling character? Each time she reached the question, though, she shrugged. Time would tell. She wouldn't have believed (still didn't, really) she could change the past, either.

A sudden commotion from ahead in the long line of marchers – she'd drifted quite a ways back in the crowd without noticing – brought her out of her reverie, and she strained to hear what was being shouted back down the line. What she heard sent waves of warring excitement and terror racing through her system, and she kicked Peace into a gallop past the shouting warriors. She had to find Boudicca NOW, and try to do that something spectacular.

The Legions they were chasing had stopped to make their stand at last.

* * *

 **The Wolf's Trap**

The Briton army, strung out in a long, thick column to navigate the broad road running through the westlands, had begun cresting a thinly-wooded hill, from whose top the length of the next valley could be seen. At the far end of that valley, on bare ground before the road again dove through the densely forested slopes of a narrowing ravine, Paulinus had set his two legions out in their standard battle formation, spears and swords bristling from several iron-shielded, close-ranked turtles of a thousand or more soldiers each.

Boudicca and her commanders stood together on the hillock at one side of the road, staring down at the Legions and discussing tactics, as their army continued streaming past. Just as Rhosyn pulled her pony to a halt and jumped off, the little group began breaking up, moving to rejoin their various peoples. Desperate, Rhosyn pelted after the Iceni Queen, calling sharply.

"Boudicca, no! Don't send our army – our _people_ into the Roman trap!"

The Queen looked askance at the blonde, the question of her sanity written on her face, while the other commanders of the combined Briton army scoffed openly. "This is the perfect opportunity to grind the Romans into the dust!" said Caradoc, the grizzled old weapons master from Boudicca's own village, now serving as her second-in-command. "Don't listen to this foolish girl, my Queen – she knows nothing of tactics and battle, we have seen that!"

Another sharp glance, and Boudicca turned away from Rhosyn, regretfully dismissive.

Rhosyn took a desperate step after them, and said in a low, intense voice. "I told you 'no' once before, Boudicca, and you didn't listen – and your back bears the scars, and your daughters their disgrace. _Will you listen to me now?"_ The question burned the air between them.

Boudicca had stopped cold, that scarred back stiffened in shock. Slowly she turned her head, her wide eyes finding Rhosyn's almost in fear. Rhosyn saw her make the decision. She turned fully back towards her 'conscience', and said one word: "Speak."

Rhosyn took a deep breath and began the speech she'd been mentally rehearsing, speaking as carefully, and hopefully as persuasively, as she ever had in her life. "The Roman Legions have swept across the known world, and conquered all of it. _Those_ Legions, right there, fighting in _that_ formation," she stressed, stabbing a finger towards the valley below. "They know tactics, and methods, that we cannot begin to imagine, let alone counter. Every single one of those soldiers has trained, and trained, and trained, for _years_. Every single one has weapons that outmatch ours, and armor that our swords and spears cannot hope to penetrate – the few we have! Even the ground itself will fight for them – why do you think Paulinus chose _that_ spot to stand and face us, bypassing all others these past days, unless the lay of the land favors _their_ strengths and not ours?"

Caradoc had been working up a head of outrage, and now broke in. "None of that matters, foolish girl! We have three times their numbers!"

Rhosyn shook her head, staring back at the old warrior in disbelief. "Do you think you're the first to try throwing sheer numbers at them? They have defeated armies _five_ times their size!" She turned back to Boudicca and took another step forward, imbuing her next words with all the sincerity she could muster, hoping desperately to persuade the warrior queen. "We _cannot_ win against them if we fight their way, Boudicca. But we _can_ win if we continue to fight _our_ way – _our_ war. We are _so close_ to winning. If we can just keep holding on for just a little while longer, keep harrying them, cutting off their supplies, leveling their settlements, and whittling away at their numbers, we will see the end of these invaders, these _Romans_."She paused for emphasis, taking a deep, final breath. "But _n_ ot if you march us into the trap they've laid for us – for _you_ – down there in that valley."

Boudicca was staring, weighing Rhosyn's words against everything she knew. "You know this? You swear to me that you know this?"

Rhosyn nodded. "Yes. The same way I knew what would happen that day in the village, the same way I knew you would catch Decianus at the port. I _know_ this battle is a trap we cannot win, but that we _can_ win – we _will_ win, if we stay out of it."

It seemed to Rhosyn that the entire world held its breath a moment, waiting for Boudicca's decision. Then, suddenly, "Caradoc! Call them back! No, wait!" Boudicca whirled, staring down towards the Roman formation in the distance for a moment, weighing and discarding alternatives. "Let them continue – but slow them down, and only the first fifth of our number. They must cover for the rest of us. Manduvarius!" She turned towards the Trinovantian king who had joined them before Camulodunum. "Take your people out of the line, turn back to Lutocetum and take the road south towards Isca Dumnoniorum. Burn whatever Roman towns you find, but do not kill Britons. You must deal with the Second Legion there when it marches – the same way we are dealing with these here. You understand? Do NOT face them in a pitched battle."

Manduvarius nodded, and she turned to the Catuvellauni king next. "Take your people back, as well, old friend, and then melt through these woods to the north, and find a way around those iron-skinned fools. Get to Viroconium behind them and deal with them as we have those other Roman towns. Then head back this direction – but carefully! We may crush these Legions between us." He nodded, grinning wolfishly, and Boudicca turned back to Caradoc.

"Take half of our own people, Caradoc, and put them into the woods behind this hill, as we waited for the Ninth Legion after Camulodunum. I will go down below, make a show as if gathering to attack them, and then suddenly retreat. Perhaps we can draw them after us – if so, you will spring the trap. If not, we will melt into the trees like our own marsh mists, and pick them off when they tire of standing there like statues."

She looked again at the assembled commanders. "We must keep in touch with each other through these coming weeks. We may need to join forces again to convince our unwanted guests to go home. But remember this, my friends. Rhosyn is right. Do not try to fight the Roman's war, the Roman's way. Stick with what we _do_ know. Fight them _our_ way. Are we agreed?"

Rhosyn held her breath, waiting, Fate's cold, fickle breeze tickling her nerve endings. The men were all three staring at her out of the corners of their eyes, wary, wondering, and accusing. "Why should we believe her, Boudicca?" one of them finally asked.

"Because I do," she calmly replied. "No portent foretold the events that day when I was scourged, my daughters – and she herself – ravaged. But she did. She tried to warn me. Nor could anyone have known Decianus would attempt to flee our shores – but she did. Because of this she-wolf, we regained our treasure and had our revenge upon that one fox. I believe her now. She has proven herself to me, and I stand by her."

Rhosyn's eyes were blinking against prickling tears. Never had she expected to hear such praise from her heroine. Nevertheless, she stood tall and still, and finally, one by one, the three men nodded their assent.

As they each turned to collect their people and march to their separate paths, Boudicca turned once more toward Rhosyn and stretched out a welcoming hand, her smile fierce and feral. "Come, little she-wolf," she laughed. "Let's go be bait."

* * *

 **Triumph**

Three months later, Rhosyn and Boudicca stood surrounded by their tired, grimy army on the cliffs overlooking the Channel, watching the last of the Roman Legions sail back to Gaul. It hadn't been an easy war, and several times they had nearly been snared into a pitched battle, but each time Boudicca had slipped away from the temptation, leading her people into the forest to continue their own battle, their way.

Paulinus had lost no troops that day on Watling Street, his own trap snapping shut on empty air as Boudicca, having shouted and exhorted her pitiful, ragged "army" – surely she had more soldiers than this scant number? – suddenly wheeled her chariot about and led them at a run back up the road, accompanied all the while by a woman with long, startling blonde hair ( _highly_ unusual for this part of the world) mounted on a white horse. His own Legions had wanted to chase after them, but he'd held them back, seeing right through his enemy's laughable attempt to lure him out of his preferred battlefield.

What followed had been an infuriating exercise in marching back and forth, trying to bring the Britons to battle, watching his own numbers slowly dwindle in nightly raids, hearing the rest grumble more and more vociferously as their supplies were cut off with the burning of Roman settlements throughout the bloody, mist-shrouded island. When he'd finally managed to order Postumus and the Second Legion up from the south, even their combined army hadn't managed to catch a single Briton in their gigantic pincer movement. Instead, not two days after the commanders met face-to-face at last, a messenger arrived from Rome with orders from Nero himself: withdraw. Britain was to be left to its own devices, too far away from the heart of the empire, and at much too high a price in men and money, to be deemed worth the effort. Paulinus had fallen into such a fury at this unspoken rebuke that he'd nearly had a stroke, his men fearing for his life – and their own. The normally even-tempered, fair-minded commander had ordered several men lashed severely for minor infractions, adding even more resentment to the pile, then at last had given the orders to turn back southeast. The Britons had continued harrying them until they were almost within sight of the headland, then drew back to let them board their ships in good order under their watchful gaze. Paulinus stood on the deck of the last ship, the last Roman to step off the beach, and watched the white cliffs fall behind until they vanished in the storm, the hated British weather gods sending them off with a final, fitting squall. He made no vows to return.

That night the entire coastline was lit up with a series of tremendous bonfires, the whole of southeast Britain rising up to celebrate the Romans' departure along with Boudicca's army. They brought out hidden stores of meat and mead, and toasted, sang, and danced far into the night. As word was sent out along the roads spiderwebbing the island, each man and woman reacted according to their lights, some in tears – some few lives had been improved – but most in celebration. Then they looked around, took stock, and began rebuilding. Some of the ideas the Romans had brought weren't bad, after all – warm stone floors heated by hypocausts, for one thing. Luxurious hot baths, for another.

^..^

Shortly after her arrival several months before, Rhosyn had removed the time jumper from her wrist and secured it in a small deerskin bag hanging around her neck. She hadn't taken it out once in all the time since. Now, screened from the celebrations going on all around her by some bushes, she carefully undid the knot and slipped the futuristic gizmo out.

Just as Jared had promised, the backlight had slipped from white to red. The timelines had split. She could go home.

"Order me up a pizza, Mum, I'm on my way!" she whispered, grinning through her tears. Then she slipped the Jumper back onto her arm, hiding it under her sleeve just below her elbow. She carefully pressed the button combination Jared had said was Recall, and stared at the date that came onto the display. The very day she'd been snatched on her way to work. Oh, Gaia, how long ago was that? It seemed like half a lifetime. (She only glanced at the other part of the display, presuming it was the location of her kidnapping in London, as he'd also promised.)

Then, carefully stepping out of the bushes as though she'd only been making a pit stop, Rhosyn began wandering from fire to fire, greeting the friends she had made, stopping to drink a toast, saying goodbye – though she didn't say it aloud. Finally, she came to the biggest fire of them all, where Boudicca, Fedelmid and Genofeva were singing and laughing. The girls had recovered their spirits over the summer, exorcising the demons of their nightmares with their swords, becoming warrior women in the image of their famous mother.

"Come, Rhosyn," Boudicca cried in her rough, gravelly voice when she spied her young friend. "Come drink a toast with me!" Standing, she reached into the small chest beside her and pulled out a magnificent, jeweled goblet, twin to the ones she and the girls were holding, the fourth of an obvious set. She filled it with mead from the skin nearby and handed it to Rhosyn. "To your health, little she-wolf. To all our health!"

"To Britain," Rhosyn replied, "and to you, my Queen." Lifting her goblet in tribute, she then drank deeply. _I could really get to like this mead stuff._ Smiling, she drank again, draining the cup, and then looked closely at it, admiring the filigreed etchings on the side. Suddenly her grin stretched, as she realized the design: roses. With tiny rubies in the center of each one.

"What is so funny, little she-wolf?" Boudicca asked, her words slightly slurred; she'd had more than a few cups of mead, herself.

"I'm stealing this cup, Boudicca. And there's nothing you can do about it."

The Queen laughed. "As you're part of my household, Rhosyn, it's not exactly stealing – " suddenly she stopped, instantly sober, as the words and the meaning behind them penetrated. "You're leaving?"

"Yes." Rhosyn nodded, regret making a halo of the firelight in her hair. "I've done what I came to do. And now it's time to go home." She turned to Genofeva, who had greeted her and made her feel at home the very first day. "I'm giving my pony to you. Take good care of her?"

Full of mead-fueled protest, both girls jumped up to hug Rhosyn, but she waved their pleas to stay to silence before turning back to their mother.

Boudicca's eyes were wide with wonder. "You never told me where you came from. The things you knew... and now you say you came here with a purpose. Did the gods truly send you to save us from the Romans?"

Caught flat-footed, Rhosyn spluttered softly, then shrugged, smiling. What could she say? How could she explain that she was from the far distant future, correcting timelines? Who was to say that didn't make her – and those who sent her – gods?

Boudicca shook her head, putting aside the question. Suddenly impulsive, she flung her arms around Rhosyn and pulled her in for a backbreaking hug. "I shall miss you terribly," she whispered.

Rhosyn hugged her back, hard, unable to reply for fear of breaking down completely. Then she dropped her arms and forced herself to step back. "Goodbye," she whispered.

"But how will you go without a horse?" Fedelmid wanted to know.

Rhosyn just laughed. Then she lifted her arm, shifted the jeweled cup to that hand, pushed up her sleeve, and punched the button, leaving the Iceni women staring openmouthed at the sudden hole in the air.

^..^

The cacophony of tooting horns and gunning engines hit Rhosyn's ears, almost deafening her after the incredible silence of the forest she'd gotten used to. Her eyes stung, and a single gasp started her coughing from the exhaust. Yup. She was back in London. How could she ever have thought this was clean air?

Looking wildly around, she realized with a start that she was back on Queen Boudicca Street, just a block away from where she'd been snatched. She took off at a run, ignoring the puzzled looks of passersby at her outlandish, primitive attire. Reaching the corner, she screeched to a halt, gaping ahead – there she was, her own self, blue jeans and hoodie, walking nonchalantly away. And there was the goon who had grabbed her – was grabbing her now, and punching the button on his time jumper even as her former self threw him to the sidewalk – and they both flashed out of existence.

Rhosyn gulped. It was real. She was back. The entire thing had really happened. She looked down at her hands, realizing that she still held the jeweled goblet. Yes, it had happened.

Suddenly she took off again, her feet moving before the thought that impelled them had really sunk into her consciousness. Three blocks ahead, two, one... there it was. She screeched to another halt, gaping up a the statue she'd passed every day for three years, glancing fondly up at her heroine. But it had changed from the last time she'd seen it.

Passersby swerved around the strangely dressed young woman, staring at her in consternation as she doubled up in slightly hysterical laughter, grinning like a maniac at the statue of the Warrior Queen Boudicca of the Iceni.

Standing proudly alone, one bronze hand holding aloft a sword, the other resting on the head of a she-wolf.


	3. Dance 2 Saxon Maibaum

**First Intermission**

After going over the details once more to make sure Rhosyn understood, Jared double-checked that the time and place of her kidnapping were pre-programmed into the memory circuits of the corresponding time jumper correctly, then carefully punched in her next destination: Northhampton, 61 AD, and finally buckled the Jumper around Rhosyn's wrist, then took a few minutes to teach her the very basics of using it, so she'd recognize when the timelines had split, and be able to get back home.

"Ready?" he queried in her native Gaelic, and she nodded back, taking a deep breath and squaring her back in such a Rose-like gesture that he grinned involuntarily. His own Rose stepped up beside him and smiled at her doppelganger, wishing her good luck – and a chorus of them came from the rest of the "bouquet" of Roses standing around in a circle. That brought an answering sunrise smile from Rhosyn, then she pressed a carefully determined finger down on the button and disappeared into the past in a dazzling flare.

"How long till..." Jack queried, even as Jared and Rose whirled back to the Cannon console.

Jared shook his head, pointing wordlessly toward the large display. Alpha timeline showed clearly, the current personal timelines of the billions of extant lives forming a tangled web in one quadrant of the display. Then, even as they watched, another web alongside and behind the first began to flicker into life, its reddish hues contrasting with the white Alpha threads. Every watcher held their breath, the other Roses and Joel, the tech, crowding around behind the trio in charge. And then...

...with a final flicker, the red web surged into glowing, solid permanence.

 _"She's done it!_ " crowed Jared, and he turned and scooped his fiancée into his arms in joy.

"Did you have any doubt?" she laughed, impishly.

"Not for a moment, love," he smiled back.

"But how did she do it so quickly?" another Rose asked, happy but puzzled. "I mean, she only just left a second ago!"

Jack took over, reminding her that the mission was two thousand years in the past. "No matter how long it actually took Rhosyn to do what she had to – days, months, years – the effect rippled through time and showed up almost immediately to us up here in the future."

 _"Years?"_ gasped another woman, one who had held back slightly all this time, a little shyer and more reserved than the rest of her mirror images. "I can't be gone that long!"

Jack moved to her side, then, talking smoothly and soothingly. "But you'll return to the exact moment you were kidnapped, sweetheart. You won't be gone from your life that long – not to anyone else there. They won't even notice you _were_ gone."

Rose found she was watching Jack out of the corner of her eyes, wondering what was going through the rogue's mind, surrounded by other versions of herself to impress. _Nightmare or dream date?_ she wondered, then shook her head ruefully. Catching Jared's quizzical glance, she laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. Then, "so who's next?"

"Let's keep it in chronological order of the splits," he replied. Calling the very-long-term display of all the parallels out of the Cannon's memory banks, he picked out the next split point and read the alternate's base harmonic frequencies, then ran his sonic over the line of time jumpers, picking out from the resonances the one which showed it had operated in those frequencies. Then he turned and ran the sonic over the outstretched hands of the "bouquet" to pick out the right Rose to match. "And that's you!" he grinned, taking her hand to pull her out of line.

Rose noted that she was the one Reich Rose had identified earlier in the cell as "her English is strange, but still English." _That makes sense,_ she thought. The next time traveler was dressed casually, in jeans and a sweater, with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

"So where am I going?" she asked nervously.

"How good are you on English history?" Jared asked curiously.

"Well, I'm studying it, as a matter of fact," she began to reply, swinging her backpack down before she stopped abruptly. "No, that class wasn't today. I don't have my textbook." She shrugged. "Pretty good?" She made it a question.

"Norman invasion?" Jared prompted.

The traveller thought, then shrugged. "There were a bunch of _attempted_ invasions, but none succeeded. Oh! You mean the one in... erm... ten-sixty-six? That King Harold the Second fought off?"

"That's the one. In our timeline, he didn't fight it off. He died, and the Norman William came in and took over. Now, unfortunately, I don't know precisely what happened or when that made the difference. All I can tell you is that in our world, Harold's personal timeline ends, and William's goes on. In yours, all I could see from our Cannon was the reverse: William's ended but Harold's continued. Do you remember any details from your history book?"

She struggled a bit, then regretfully shrugged. "Not really. It wasn't covered in any detail."

Jared smiled kindly. "That's all right. It might not matter, anyway. Time will be in flux – which means the details could be different – and history books don't always tell the truth, anyway. Now, your best bet would be to convince Harold not to go north to York to counter the other invasion – his brother, I think it was, and the King of Norway – but to stay with his ships in the south and wait for the Normans. They won't make it across the Channel until September. But even if you can't do that, then listen..." and he outlined the problems with the Battle of Hastings, and how Harold might have won if only he'd kept his troops together, all the while programming her time jumper as he had Rhosyn's, and fastening it around her wrist. Then he motioned to her backpack. "You won't want to take that with you; it could get you into real trouble."

"But how will I get it back? These books are bloody expensive, I can't afford to replace them!"

Rose grinned at her. "Don't worry. We'll get it to you, once all the dust settles. We'll still have time jumpers and two dimension cannons to play with." And so the student reluctantly shrugged out of the pack and set it on a chair.

Standing back at the edge of the circle, Jack's mind began wandering. He couldn't fight the feeling that it was all going too easily...

… when suddenly a loud report, amplified off the concrete walls, rang through the Hub. Jack felt the bullet hit his back and sighed. "I knew we were forgetting something..." And his vision dimmed for the 2,348th time.

As he collapsed to the floor, the others gaped at the scene revealed behind him. Corvantes smiled coldly, the .38 pistol he kept in an ankle holster pointed now at Jared's head, the only one his misogyny would allow him to believe was a threat. "After all the trouble I've gone to to set this up, I'm not about to let you waltz in and destroy it," slid silkily across the room.

He stalked the three steps across to the would-be time traveller and grabbed her upper arm. "Take that device off and give it to me."

His victim was heartily tired of being pawed. She touched the Jumper on her arm – and then, on an insane impulse, without giving herself a moment to think, instead of undoing the buckle, she stabbed the transport button.

And both she and Corvantes disappeared, back into the past.

* * *

 **Dance Two: Saxon Maibaum**

 **Rough Landing**

Rose went sprawling out of the transport flash, finding herself faceplanting into thick turf – salty turf, at that, and she spit out a mouthful of green as she rolled on over to spring to her feet. Corvantes had fallen the other way, spreadeagle in the wet grass, and to her everlasting luck, was taking just a heartbeat longer to recover. _And he'd dropped the .38._ She ran the two steps to it, inches from his hand, and kicked it away just as he reached for it, sending it arcing far out over the cliffs and down towards the sounds of surf far below. One part of Rose's brain registered those details of location and immediately pushed them aside to concentrate on her enemy as he lunged to his feet and swore.

"You _bitch!"_ Then, distracted by their surroundings, Corvantes looked wildly around for a moment: high white cliffs gleaming in the sunshine, rough blue-grey water as far as they could see beyond, unadulturated green rolling to the horizon in the other direction. He brought his icy green eyes back to his erstwhile victim in fury. "Where the hell are we?"

Rose kept her mouth clamped shut, not about to give him a single blessed bit of information, and began backing cautiously away. _He must not have been listening back there. Typical male. Why stop and ask for directions?_

"Oh, no, you don't. Give me that device!" he snarled again, and lunged after her, reaching for her arm with the time jumper. She struggled mightily, but had no chance against his much greater weight and strength. Somehow she managed to get her right hand clamped on the metal wrist strap, though, and when he finally got the buckle undone, scraping and bruising her wrist in the process, she held on with strength borne of sheer desperation, twisting herself and it out of his grasp – and then flung it over the cliffs, as well, following the pistol.

Corvantes, gaping and grabbing wildly at it, watched the Jumper sail out of his reach and fall, lost. He stared uncomprehendingly at the spot for several heaving breaths, then raised a furious fist to backhand her, his intent to beat her to a pulp obvious.

 _"HOLD!"_

Both of them whirled around, Corvantes with his fist still raised, to see a small troop of horsemen riding hard towards them, obviously having just spilled out of a fold in the green hills. The noise of their galloping hooves, hidden until then by the wind and surf, burst on their ears as they took in the strange sight: a dozen men in breastplates and helmets, spears high and banners fluttering aloft. Even Rose, who had known for a few minutes when she was coming to, gulped hard at this incontrovertible evidence of their place in history. Corvantes was just lost.

Pulling his horse to a thundering stop a few feet from the strange duo who he'd found struggling on his cliffs, the lead man stared down at them. "What is the meaning of this? Who are you?" he demanded regally.

And regally was the word, Rose instantly realized. He even had a gold circlet on his helmet. Forcing herself to break free of the paralysis of shock, she ran to the horse's side and placed a beseeching hand on the man's forearm.

"My lord, help me! I beg you for protection! This man kidnapped me – stole me from my home and brought me here!" His accent had been so different from her own that she wasn't sure he could understand her, but surely _damsel in distress_ translated to any language.

Apparently it did. His thunderous grey eyes snapped back to Corvantes in suspicion. She could see him taking in the strange apparel this time – Corvantes had on an expensive black silk suit that, while impressive as all get-out back in his own time, would nevertheless be as out of place here in eleventh-century Saxon England as a loincloth. (Nevermind her own jeans and sweater; she'd just keep the stranger from looking further than her eyes!) "Who are you?" the rider demanded again.

Corvantes was quick and smooth, that was certain. "My lord," he began silkily, spreading his hands graciously with a disarming smile, "my name is Paul Corvantes. This woman is my servant, who had stolen my – a precious heirloom. I was trying to retrieve it, and her."

The leader glanced back down at Rose, who gave him her best innocent-but-terrified look and shook her head forcefully, implying the lie. He looked back and forth a couple more times, then shook his own head. "One of you is lying, and I will find out who. But not here. How far to the ship?" he asked over his shoulder to the next in line.

"The next bay, my lord, just beyond that headland."

"Good. Bring them both." A final look at Rose seemed to soften slightly, and gave her hope, then he sidled his horse a step away from her before digging his spurs into its flanks and sending it off at an instant gallop.

The rider who had replied stepped his own mount up to her, then, and smiled down kindly, with a spark of interest. "Miss?" Holding out one hand to her and taking that foot out of the stirrup momentarily, he pulled Rose up to a precarious perch behind him. Then, with a relay of the order to bring Corvantes to the other dozen riders, he spurred on behind his lord. Rose glanced back to see her erstwhile captor chivvied at spear- and sword-point into the middle of the horse troop on foot and then forced to set out at a run behind them. She grinned. _That's better._

She faced forward again to peer over her escort's shoulder as they pounded up the hill, hoping she wasn't being too forward by the way she was holding on to him. "What's your name, Miss?" he asked back at her – though he had to repeat it a couple of times before she understood.

"Rose." She decided not to try for a last name. "And you, my lord?"

"Alain Garethson. Cousin of King Harold."

"And is that..." She pointed ahead.

"The King? Aye, that's him."

She was about to ask where they were going (or try to, anyway), when they crested the hill at last. Rose gasped at the sight, heretofore hidden by the headland: dozens of wooden sailing ships were scattered across the bay, moored in the vast mouth of a large river. Alain didn't pause, but kicked his horse faster, following the King down the dirt road towards the rocky beach below. They caught up just as he pulled up at the end of a long pier, jumped down off his horse without a glance at the boy who ran to catch the reins, and strode on long legs down to the rowboat waiting halfway along. Alain quickly swung down and then lifted Rose as lightly as a leaf, took her arm (with a gesture more gallant than confining) and escorted her to the same boat.

King Harold barely glanced at them as they sat on the thwarts, obviously distracted and worried. Rose held her tongue, not wanting to press her advantage to the breaking point. The oarsmen quickly brought the coracle out and began rowing hard for the nearest large ship, towering (to Rose's eyes) a good twelve feet above the waterline, with the same pennants fluttering high above from the main mast as had been carried by the King's horsemen. Obviously, this was the flagship of the fleet, the King's own ship.

As they came alongside, she read the name painted along the prow, and smiled. She couldn't have told anyone why, but for some obscure, unknown reason, it reassured her.

The ship was named _Blaidd Drwg._

* * *

 **The Hearing**

"Miss?"

As soon as they had climbed up the rope ladder onto the _Blaidd Drwg_ , Rose had been taken below and locked into a small cabin, apparently belonging to one of the ship's officers. With nothing else to do, she'd settled onto the tiny bunk to wait, listening to the distant sounds of sea and sailors going about their business. Now, an hour later, the door had been unlocked again, and a soldier (not Alain, she was disappointed to see) beckoned her out.

He turned to lead her down the narrow passage, a second soldier bringing up the rear. Rose diverted herself for a moment wondering why the word "soldier" seemed to apply to them rather than "sailor", and decided it was the long swords they carried – their somewhat-matching blue tunics being the only thing close to a "uniform". Then she was shown into a large cabin at the rear of the ship, and all thoughts of terminology faded. King Harold was leaning back in a large wooden chair, arms crossed, at ease behind a large table strewn with hand-drawn charts and papers, his back to a tiny open window, his grey eyes watching her closely above a guarded, carefully blank expression. He was handsome, she decided, with curly dark blonde hair showing now his helmet was off. The soldier pointed to a spot on the floor at one side, and then stood carefully alert behind her, the second waiting outside.

The room was silent for a long moment, the sea birds squawking outside the porthole and the endless creaking of the ship the only sounds above the distant surf. Harold held her gaze, measuring, and she looked straight back, unafraid, keeping her mouth shut. Surely even at this time in history one shouldn't speak to a King until spoken to.

The silence was broken then by the door behind her opening once more, this time to admit Corvantes, also under guard. He had to duck to enter, and his head nearly brushed the ceiling as he straightened up again. He was placed on a spot two paces to Rose's right, then his guard took an identical spot behind him. Corvantes seemed to fill the room with his presence, an almost palpable flood that flung itself at the man behind the table and struggled against the other's own magnetism. Rose, glancing surreptitiously back and forth, watched the two stare at each other for several long breaths, an invisible war of wills raging, and was astonished to see Corvantes blink first. He dropped his eyes to the table and bowed his head a scant inch. "My lord," he murmured – and Rose realized it was a strategic retreat, not an admission of defeat. Corvantes, as always, would pick his own battles.

She turned her own face back to the King – only then noticing Alain in the shadows to one side. He raised an eyebrow at her, sharing her observation, then gave her a quick, friendly half-smile before he turned back to Harold, as well.

"Who are you?" demanded the King of the man before him, ignoring Rose for the moment.

"My name is Paul Corvantes, my lord."

"Where are you from?"

"From Sicily, my lord."

"And why are you here?"

"I'm a merchant, my lord, trading in valuable jewels." Corvantes had apparently had time to manufacture an alibi.

"Then where are they? Where are your things? How did you get here? You've nothing with you – no baggage, no horse, no ship. Just the two of you, all alone, out on that cliff, nothing for miles. How did you get there?"

Corvantes was thinking fast. "I was chasing her, my lord," motioning towards Rose. "She is my servant, as I told you. We had just arrived in a nearby town – I don't know the name – and she stole one of my pieces of jewelry and ran off. I had just caught her on the cliff and was trying to retrieve it."

Harold swung his eyes to Rose. "Is this true?"

She shook her head forcefully. "No, my lord, I am NOT his servant. He kidnapped me!"

He didn't seem to understand the word, but let it go. "Your name?"

"Rose. Rose Tyler."

"Let me see your hands." She hesitated, startled at the odd request, and he motioned her up to the table. When she stepped up and held them out, he looked closely at them both, turning them over to check the palms, then noticed her scraped and bruised left wrist. Looking up into her eyes for a moment, he then nodded and motioned her back again. Then he turned to Corvantes. "Those are _not_ the hands of a servant." His eyes narrowed. "What had she stolen?"

Corvantes shrugged. "A bauble, nothing more, my lord. A pretty thing for a lady."

Harold's eyes narrowed even more. Without looking, he picked up a small cloth bundle beside the pitcher of wine at one side of the desk and placed it in front of himself, then flicked the corners off to reveal what was wrapped inside, his eyes darting back and forth between Corvantes and Rose to watch their reactions.

The time jumper.

Rose gave a tiny gasp, her eyes wide, but remained silent. Corvantes sucked his own breath in, looking for an instant as though he were about to launch himself at it, then visibly got himself under steely control again.

"One of my men climbed down and retrieved it. What is it?" asked the King, his voice demanding the truth.

"It... it belonged to my father, my lord," Corvantes began spinning a lie, relying on his legendary poker face. "A design of his own making – he was always creating oddities like that. I did not realize she had stolen it, as well."

Rose darted an outraged glance at Corvantes, then turned back to see Harold watching her. She shook her head again, unable to keep silent any longer. "I didn't steal it! It was mine! My lord..." Her voice trailed off, bewildered. What could she possibly say to counter Corvantes' lies? The truth? Hah! That would land her in the funny farm – or the convent, more likely, in this time and place.

She could see Harold's mind working hard, considering all he had heard. He leaned over the Jumper, inspecting it closely. "C'est une pièce magnifique, n'est-ce pas?" he asked Corvantes, admiringly.

"Oui," came the automatic reply, and Harold shot him a triumphant stare.

"As I thought. You're a Norman spy, working for William the Bastard, aren't you? And not a very good one, either."

Corvantes, outraged, drew breath to protest his innocence, but Harold roughly waved him silent, motioning to his guard, instead. "Lock him up again – and double the guard."

Corvantes really began to protest at this, but the soldier pulled his sword half out of the scabbard menacingly, and the door was pulled open to reveal his companion, likewise armed and ready. Corvantes shut his mouth with a pop, shooting a look at Rose that promised cold revenge, then turned and went silently out the door.

Rose drew a huge breath, blowing it out in relief as she turned back towards Harold. Staring silently at the door for a moment after it closed, the King then turned to his cousin. "Alain... I don't trust him. I don't want him on this ship, or anywhere near our expedition – or running around loose, either." He glanced out the window at the late afternoon sky. "It's too late to start today, but first thing in the morning, send him under guard to the nearest fortress and lock him up. I'll deal with him in a year or two."

"Aye, my lord."

Rose smothered a smile as Harold returned his gaze to her, considering, then he got to his feet and came around the table. He picked up a wooden chair – only slightly smaller than his own – from against the wall and set it at an angle close to the table, inviting her to sit down with a gracious gesture. So she smiled shyly and complied.

And then he leaned over her from behind, one hand on the chair's arm, the other along its back, his head next to her own, so close she could feel the heat on her cheek. He stared at the time jumper two feet away on the table for a long moment, inviting her to gaze at it, as well. Then he turned and looked directly into her eyes from inches away.

"What is it?" he asked, quietly intense.

Caught. His grey eyes bored into her, demanding a response.

"You wouldn't believe me," she whispered.

"Try me." He paused, then... "You asked me for protection, and I have given it to you. In return, Rose Tyler, you owe me the truth."

The Truth

Rose took a deep, unsteady breath, unable to turn away from Harold's eyes. "It... it's a device... for traveling through time."

Harold blinked. "What?"

She struggled, trying to find a way to explain it that the Dark Ages king would understand. "Imagine that you wake up tomorrow – only it's yesterday again. And everything that happened that day, you see and do all over again." She watched him work it out – he was clever, that was for certain. Then, to seal the deal, she added in a low voice, "I was born in the year nineteen-ninety-two. More than nine hundred years from now."

"Then... why are you here?" he asked, his voice harsh, only half believing.

She shrugged, helpless. "I came back... to save your life."

Harold suddenly stood up straight at that, rearing back to get a good look at this strange little woman. "You speak in nonsense, girl. You 'came back'... from the future... with that?" He stabbed a finger at the time jumper on the table, and she nodded. _"How?"_ he speared her.

Rose barked a tiny laugh, halfway to tears, one hand flying to her mouth, before she shook her head and shrugged again. "I don't know! I don't know how it works, or how to program it – how to tell it what to do. All I know is I pushed one button and it brought me here, and now I wait for the light to turn orange, and push another button, and it will take me home." She knew she was talking gibberish as far as he was concerned, but there it was.

Alain had walked around to Rose's other side, and was staring, bewildered and concerned, back and forth between her and the Jumper. "Push what?" he asked, reaching to pick up the device.

 _"Careful!"_ Rose cried, automatically starting to reach for it or ward off his hand, she couldn't have said which. Both men reacted strongly to that, and she snatched her hands back and raised them in surrender, saying quickly, "if you touch the wrong thing, it could disappear – and maybe take you with it, and I don't know where or when, or how to get it or you back."

Harold's face showed indecision as to whether she was insane, or the thing on his desk was about to explode. Suddenly Rose thought of a bit of proof – the one thing she _could_ show him. "Look," she said. She reached a single finger, pointing it towards what Jared had called the Recall button. "Just push that button – not any of the others."

"Talk Saxon, woman – 'button'?" Harold demanded, impatient with the string of unfamiliar words.

"Uh – that tiny bump there. It's called a button."

"My lord, let me," Alain broke in. Harold nodded, and his cousin reached in to do what she said, suddenly feeling like he was petting a poisonous snake. He awkwardly pressed on the tiny protuberance indicated, almost expecting to feel a sting in his finger.

Instead, the thing lit up with a strange white light! Both men gasped and flinched away, staring hard, their mouths dropping open.

Rose smothered a snort. "It's not gonna bite you," she reassured them.

Harold leaned over cautiously, peering at the tiny crystal-covered rectangle with the unnatural light. There were tiny black symbols moving across the surface – numerals and letters, and other similar-looking symbols he didn't know. He watched them for a long pause, then blinked in surprise when the light suddenly disappeared again, taking the symbols with it. He pushed the spot ( _button_ , he reminded himself) and watched the parade go by again. Then he slowly turned around, leaning his hips against the table and staring down at this strange, strange woman.

"My lord, she's a witch! This is sorcery!" demanded Alain.

"Not sorcery," she replied, "technology." Which didn't help, she realized immediately. "Sorry."

The King had been thinking hard. "So you came to this time from.. when?"

Rose sighed. "Well, when I woke up this morning, it was twenty-twelve." She couldn't believe how much had happened and how far she'd come in those few short hours.

"Twenty... twelve?" Harold asked weakly, working out the numbers. His face showed his disbelief.

She sighed. "Look!" Making a point of what she'd tried to minimize earlier: her clothes, she pulled out her sweater for him to inspect and motioned to her jeans, then worked the short sweater zipper at her neck a couple of times for his widening eyes. Snorting, she reached down and slipped off one trainer and handed it to him. "Look at it!" she urged, and finally he took it – then exclaimed over the utter strangeness of rubber soles, nylon-and-leather uppers, and plastic-tipped laces. Finally he gave it back to her with an air of almost surrender.

Provisionally accepting the proposition, he brought her back on track. "All right. Why are you here, then?"

"I was kidnapped – stolen – by Corvantes – I was telling you the truth. I... I don't know why he did it. But this is the only way I can get back home, now. By saving your life." She knew she was babbling again. "I can't explain why, it just is." She wasn't going to confuse the issue further by bringing up alternate timelines and split points. She'd barely understood Jared's explanation herself.

"So this Corvantes is from the future, as well?" he pounced on the one part that made sense. When she nodded confirmation, he waved a hand back at the Jumper. "Did he make this?"

She started to reply, then stopped, thinking hard. "No... no." He hadn't seemed at all familiar with it. If anyone, the other two men were likely suspects: Jack and Jared. She looked back up at Harold. "He grabbed my arm just as I was pushing the button. I didn't mean to bring him back with me, it just happened." She'd rather hoped that the jumper would leave him behind, even though she knew that's how the goon had brought her along in the first place.

Harold stood up and slowly walked back around the table, settling himself back into his chair, all the while staring at the Jumper. As an afterthought, he waved Alain towards another seat, and his cousin pulled it up the table and sat, too, staring as hard as his King, but at Rose.

Suddenly Harold speared her again with a piercing look. "Save my life, little witch? How?" He took a sudden breath. "If you're from the future, you know what is going to happen here, don't you? It will have been the past, for you."

She took a deep breath. "I don't know the details, just the broad facts. My lord... William _is_ coming."

He waved, dismissively. "Tell me something I don't know. Of course he is. So is Hardrata. And probably my brother, as well."

"Yes, and they'll get here first. They're going to invade in the north, near York, in September. William is going to wait until they've landed, then come invade here in the south while you're up dealing with them."

Harold had sat straight up, his eyes wide. "You know this? For certain?" She nodded. "So they _are_ working together?"

Rose shrugged. "I don't know that. All I know is that William's invasion is second."

He stared a moment longer, then his eyes narrowed. "This doesn't get my life saved."

She puffed out a breath. "All I know... is that... if William wins, and you die, I can't ever get home. I can only do that if you win, and he dies." She licked her lips, and repeated, "All I know is that you have to keep your men – your army – together, both before the battle, and especially during it. You _must_... Keep them together, my lord."

It was Harold's turn to puff, half derisive, half rueful. "Too late," he told her. "I already sent my housecarls home to bring in their harvests. I couldn't keep them here any longer."

"Can't you bring them back?" she almost wailed.

His eyes narrowed, deep in plans, and slowly nodded. "When it's time." A sharp glance: "September?" and she nodded back. Another check: "York?" and another silent confirmation.

He leaned back again, chewing thoughtfully on a thumbnail, staring at the Jumper. One eyebrow quirked, and he gave Rose a tight smile. "So I guess Corvantes isn't one of William's spies after all?"

She grimaced. "Not yet." At his surprised look, she went on. "I wouldn't put it past him to go over." Realizing she was going to have to explain that one, she sighed. "The only way _he_ can get home from here – now, is if William wins. And he gets this back, of course," she added, gesturing at the Jumper.

"Well, we don't want that, do we? So you're competing against each other now?"

Rose gave a tiny rueful smile and nodded, not liking _that_ proposition at _all_ , but realizing its truth.

Harold turned thoughtful again. "Alain... change of plans. Double – no, triple the guard on his door, and station men above on the deck. Then, in the morning, take him out beyond the hill – and execute him. I don't want it done on board; the men are jumpy enough as it is. But he's far too dangerous to leave alive, even in captivity."

"Aye, my lord," came the calm response.

Rose, struck hard by how casually they proposed killing a man they'd only just met, suddenly realized she was in a life-or-death struggle. Swallowing hard, she dropped her eyes to her hands folded in her lap. _Well, did you think you were here for a picnic, kid?_

"My lord, what will you do now?" Alain was asking.

King Harold leaned forward, plans falling into place almost visibly behind his eyes. A wolfish smile slowly crossed his lips. "This... this will work." Suddenly the decision was made, and he began snapping out orders. "Alain, you will stay here, in command of the fleet. You may have to let some of the ships go, but keep as many as you can patrolling the channel. I'm going north, to raise the army around York and meet Harald Hardrata and dear Brother Tostig. When William finally sails, don't try to engage him on the water, you won't have the men or ships. Just watch him. The _minute_ he lands, you do two things: one, send the message to me, and two, recall the housecarls from their fields. I'll be on my way the moment I get your message. Keep an eye on him, try to contain him, and we'll meet him together on my return. And take him."

He smiled at Rose, who was staring at him openmouthed. "And we'll keep the men together in battle, don't worry. We will not be divided or flanked."

"And what of her, my lord?" Alain asked.

"Can you ride a horse, little witch?" Harold was amused by his own nickname for her, no longer in any fear of her supposed abilities.

She shook her head.

"Then you'll have to stay here. We ride very hard and very fast, for many miles. Alain, I am placing her under your protection." His voice made it a transfer of his sacred duty. "However..." He gave her a significant look, then began gathering the Jumper back up in its cloth wrapping, careful not to nudge the little "buttons", and wrapped it in another cloth snatched from the floor (it looked like a shirt) for even more padding. "I'm taking this with me. Just so you don't get any ideas." Standing suddenly and turning to one side, he placed the little bundle gently into a small wooden casket – Rose caught a glimpse of gold and jewels within before he closed the lid and locked it with a key hanging around his neck.

As he turned back, coming to stand regally straight behind the table, Alain jumped up, as well, and Rose followed suit. Alain still looked worried, but Harold smiled at him. "Don't worry, cousin. We can do this. Don't you see? This little witch has brought us the key." Leaning across the table, he placed a hand on Alain's shoulder. "Hold the coast for me, cousin, and keep close watch. When I return, it will be to victory!"

Alain reached up to grasp Harold's forearm, smiling back, won over yet again by his magnetic King, as always. "To victory, my lord!"

When both men glanced at her, their smiles open and welcoming, a bit of the fear that had clamped Rose's heart in ice all morning seeped away, and she smiled back. "To victory!" she joined the verbal toast. _To going home_.

* * *

 **Changes**

The following dawn found Rose, huddled in a warm blanket, standing on the deck of the _Blaidd Drwg,_ watching a rather more bedraggled and rope-bound Corvantes be marched back up the road they'd come down the day before. Harold had let it be known that the suspected spy was being taken to the fortress several miles upriver at Avonslea to be held for trial, not telling anyone but the half-dozen men on the detail the true mission: he was to be taken only a few miles to the nearby woods and executed, out of sight of the fleet. The men would then bury him, then go on to the fortress and return, supposedly on a routine patrol.

Rose had been guarded through the night in the same cabin as before, but her door had not been locked – for which she was grateful, deciding it was a measure of how much of the King's trust she had earned. She watched as Corvantes and his escort crested the hill back of the sea cliffs – and then he stopped to look back. She knew he was staring straight at her, and the memory of his cold, calculating eyes sent shivers down her back. Then he was prodded into motion again, and the group disappeared over the top.

Much of the rest of the day was taken with watching Harold sneak himself and selected soldiers out of the fleet, so as not to raise suspicion of the inevitable spies. She'd been startled to learn they expected some, but Alain shrugged; it was part of the times. She wasn't completely displeased to find herself "entrusted" to the King's cousin's care; a skinnier, younger version of Harold, he was nevertheless the other's match in the looks department, sharing the same grey eyes and blonde locks. If anything, his readier smile and infectious laugh made him even more attractive. Plus, he wasn't married, while Harold was – with an already-pregnant wife, no less.

So in retrospect, she wasn't entirely surprised to find herself in Alain's bed a scant two weeks later.

^..^

 _"Don't leave," he whispered in her ear._

 _"I'm not..." she replied sleepily. "... more comfortable here..."_

 _"No... I mean, after this is done. Stay with me."_

 _Startled out of her drowsiness, she looked at him over her shoulder. Even though his bunk was wider than hers, they still had to sleep spoon fashion to avoid falling on the floor._

 _"Is that a proposal?"_

 _"Yes. Stay with me, Rose."_

 _"I..." She was dumbfounded. "I don't know. I can't give you an answer right now, Alain. Let me think about it. I'll answer when this is over."_

 _He sighed, not wanting to accept the delay, but knowing he wouldn't get anything more just yet. "Promise me that you will think about it?" he pressed._

 _She smiled. "Day and night."_

^..^

Harold finally left with a small escort late that afternoon, ostensibly riding to the nearby fortress at Avonslea, but actually planning to rendezvous with the thirty other soldiers he'd sent out in dribs and drabs all day, then start the long, hard journey north. So it was he spurred right past both woods and fortress, never giving a thought to the detail who had left that morning with the condemned prisoner.

Alain remembered them late the following day – they should have been back from their cover trip to Avonslea by then. Then he shrugged. Harold had probably decided to scoop them up, as well – they _were_ normally part of his trusted troops. The fact that they'd not left on horseback was forgotten.

So no-one ever searched, and no-one ever found the six bodies, stripped of clothing and weapons, lying hidden in the underbrush deep in that patch of forest where they'd been surprised and murdered by their supposedly helpless prisoner.

* * *

 **The Battle**

Several weeks later found Rose huddled, utterly and completely terrified out of her wits, trying to pull every inch of her small body underneath an even smaller shield, while the sky rained arrows down upon her and the rest of Harold's army.

She wasn't supposed to be there. She just wanted to go home!

The intervening weeks had gone like clockwork: Harold had raced north, gathering an army of Saxon fyrdmen from the countryside around York, and met Harald Hardrata of Norway and his own "dear Brother Tostig" before they'd even had a chance to sack the city as planned. The bloody battle at Stamford Bridge went just as it should have anyway, even without the previous bloodshed, and left both Hardrata and Tostig dead along with the vast majority of the invading force.

No sooner had word come south of that battle, than William of Normandy's ships were at long last sighted on the southern coast near Pevensey, and a huge force was landed. As he had promised, Alain sent word immediately to King Harold, who released most of the northern army back to their fields and began the mad dash south again, pausing at London to take command of the southern fyrdmen Alain had recalled in the meantime. He marched this re-formed army south towards William, meeting Alain and Rose a few miles from the fated town of Hastings, where they set up camp for the night. The two royal cousins (along with Harold's two remaining brothers, commanders of Harold's wings) stayed up most of the night in a stormy planning session – shouting was heard at several points, causing the nearby guards to look askance at the tent. However, in the morning all was calm again, and the army made its final short march to the chosen ground, setting up atop the hill and awaiting William's notice and approach. Almost as if it had been planned in advance, too, the opposing army did indeed appear within a couple of hours, and the battle began at once.

Alain had quietly outfitted Rose with a full set of leather-and-metal-ring armor, along with "suitable" men's clothing, so that she could blend into the army (if no one looked too closely). Harold had taken one look and guffawed, but then nodded; he wanted his little witch there – as long as she stayed in the rear. "Here," he told her, holding out a familiar cloth-wrapped parcel. "I believe this belongs to you." And she took the time jumper and gratefully buckled it on her own wrist again. (Checking quickly, she saw the backlight was still white. Of course.) She made herself a perch on one of the baggage wagons – and then dove underneath it as soon as the arrows began flying. A few minutes later, though, Alain's hands pulled her out and into the rear ranks.

"You'll be safer here, little witch, and can give me advice," came his comment.

A heartbeat later, the words sunk in, and Rose turned to give him a startled look. Peering closely through the helmet's face shield, she saw dancing grey eyes – but they were just slightly too dark. And he was slightly too heavy. Her eyes flying wide, she drew a breath to speak – but he forestalled her with a finger. "Shhhhhh!"

She whirled around to peer out in front of the army, where the King had stationed himself, fully visible to all, to lead his troops from the front, not the rear as William was sitting. "Noooooo," she whispered. "Alain..."

For he had taken his cousin's place.

"Believe me," came Harold's low voice in her ear, "I'm not happy about this, either. That should be me out there. This isn't right! Why did I let him talk me into this?" The obviously-rhetorical question went unanswered. "We will see how this goes, and switch if necessary."

^..^

For hour after hour, William's Norman army pounded on Harold's English one. Arrows came whistling through the air in flight after flight, and his foot soldiers and mounted cavalry took turns charging up the hill to do what little damage they could to the Saxon ranks before melting away again. Several times, the English wanted to break away to chase after their tormentors, but Harold and Alain, and Harold's brothers under strict orders, kept them from doing so. Thus, Harold lost very few soldiers through the afternoon, while William continued to rack up the casualties.

Several times, during lulls in the action, Alain melted back into the rear for conferences with Harold, and always the word was the same: keep going. It was working. A new force of a couple of thousand reinforcements would be arriving in the morning, which would sweep away the remnants of William's army – if indeed, any were still left at all. They had seen some defections already, entire squads melting away into the trees and back towards the coast as individual men and their commanders realized the futility of trying to dislodge the Saxons from their perch. William was visibly becoming more and more agitated as the day wore on.

It was nearing sunset when Alain walked back one final time, having seen signs of the Normans giving up for the night. "One more assault, perhaps, my lord," he grinned – and just as he said it, the arrows came again. He dashed back to the front line, preparing for one last cavalry charge from the tired mounts at the bottom of the hill.

Just as he reached his post, his shield held above his head to ward off the arrows, Alain turned to shout encouragement to the front ranks – and his weary shield arm inadvertently sank that crucial two inches. A last, lucky arrow came sailing out of the darkening sky and struck him in the shoulder, managing to wedge itself into his neck muscle just at the edge between mail and helmet. He staggered back, and two men sprang forward to grab his arms and lead him out of danger, while both Harold and Rose, hearts pounding, ran to meet him. Just as they reached his side, he collapsed, taking both of them down to their knees with him, to the utter horror of the watching soldiers around them.

"The King is down!" _"The King is down!"_ Panic and horror reached out, ready to take hold of the English army.

"NO! I am the King!" Harold rose majestically to his feet, sweeping off his helmet and staring about, letting his men see him, whole and unharmed. "I am King Harold, rightful King of England! And I charge you: fight on! We're winning! Fight on! For the love of England, for the love of your people, for the love of _God_ , _fight on!_ "

For one brief shining moment, the entire world held its breath. Kneeling near his feet, staring up at the King, Rose felt the frigid, toying winds of time itself whisper through her very bones.

And then...

…

Straight and true the bullet flew, fired from a gun forged a millennium in the future, dropped over a cliff and then painfully retrieved, fired from the maelstrom of hell itself, taken up and propelled forward by the mighty, undeniable force of Time's own inertia, farther and truer than any 38 Special would ever shoot again. It hit Harold square in his left eye, blowing through his brain pan and taking out half the back of his head.

There was utter silence on the hill as King Harold slowly toppled over backwards, dead before he hit the ground, his remaining eye staring sightlessly at the heavens.

 _"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

Rose's scream, a woman's scream, ripped across the landscape, freezing every human into momentary immobility before it exploded them into sound and action again, every exhausted man turning in blind panic and racing for his life, racing to meet his doom, as the Normans charged the final time into their midst, cutting and slashing.

 _"nooooooo..."_ Her voice was fading out even as she screamed, becoming a ghostly whisper.

 _"Rose?"_ Alain's horrified voice brought her attention back down to his face, staring up at her, through her. Her own hands, holding his, were already turning to mist.

"Alain... I..."

She was gone.

Alain pulled himself to his knees, frantically searching for his lord and his love. But all he found was a sword, wielded by a horseback Norman, slashing him down into the final black.

^..^

Evening. The Normans had swept through and utterly annihilated the Saxon army in a scant half hour, hunting down those who ran and cutting them down from the hill to the forest. Now they turned, laughing and joking, to robbery, taking everything of the slightest value from the corpses strewn about.

One figure climbed to the peak, hunting for treasure – a very special one. Finding the two bodies, one sprawled across the other, he quickly bent and rummaged around them, ignoring the golden circlet on the ground, not finding what he sought.

Then he spied the strange pile of empty clothing and armor beside them. He paused, then kicked aside the breastplate. And there it was: an utterly anachronistic wrist piece, metal and glass, with odd tiny bumps on it.

Corvantes picked up the time jumper and attached it to his wrist, and a smile as cold as his ice-green eyes twisted his lips.


	4. Dance 3 Byzantine Pyrhicchios

**Second Intermission**

Jared saw Saxon Rose's finger stab the transport button on her time jumper, far too quickly for even his reflexes to stop them, and the group watched, horrified, as she and Corvantes disappeared into the past. Tock ran growling to the spot, a second too late as well, and stopped, bewildered again, sniffing the floor as if trying to track them through time, before slinking back to Rose's side in a whimper.

Rose and Jared whirled back around to the cannon's screens, and (almost) all held their breath, staring hard, _willing_ the ghostly orange traces of Saxon Rose's world to strengthen and hold. No such luck. The tangled skeins of the lifelines in her parallel flickered feebly, once, twice... and faded away to nothing. Still they stared, as seconds ticked by, but the traces did not return. Finally, Jared let out his breath in a long, sobbing sigh, closed his eyes, and slumped over his fists on the console.

"Jared?" breathed Rose, horrified, not wanting to believe it, needing the confirmation.

He shook his head. "She didn't make it. She didn't succeed. Her world is gone."

"Is she still with us? Can we bring her back?"

Jared fiddled with the cannon's controls, bringing 1066 into focus, then at last shook his head again. "I don't see any sign of her there. It's as if she never was."

Rose turned away in sorrow, and caught another sight, touching Jared's arm to get his attention and nodding at it. The chair Saxon Rose had left her backpack on was empty, and the visible proof hit all of them again.

"She failed? She's gone? So we _can_ fail, can't we?" Reich Rose, harsh and skeptical again, didn't wait for an answer, but turned and walked across the Hub, sitting on a platform edge with her back to the others, arms crossed in angry denial.

"What about Corvantes?" asked another flower.

Jared shook his head again. "I don't see him there, either. I don't know what happened."

Rose was thoughtful. "If he got the time jumper, he could go anywhere, anywhen, couldn't he?"

"If he knows how to use it." Jared turned to the tech, Joel. "Did he?"

Joel nodded miserably.

"So he might show up to screw up our missions, too?" asked the same parallel Rose.

"Did he ever search back to the split points?" Jared asked Joel again.

"No... no. He never spent much time on the cannon. And we never searched back, either – we never realized they had split off from our universe. We thought they had always existed."

Satisfied, Jared turned back to the worried, watching Roses. "Then no. He has no idea where to go or when, probably doesn't even know what we're doing. The most that might happen is he'll return here and now, but if he hasn't yet, then he probably won't get here in time to mess this up. We're going very quickly here and now. We'll have the rest of you back home before he can interfere again. And we'll be waiting, and we'll prevent him from reaching out to you again in your own futures."

While they were absorbing that, Rose stepped over to where Jack had been lying motionless all this time. One of her twins, who'd been standing next to him when he was shot, had clutched wildly at him as he fell, and had been kneeling beside him, weeping for the supposedly fallen hero, ignoring the rest of the goings-on. Rose took in her attire in a flash: a fairly conservative long-sleeved white button-up blouse decorated with tiny seed pearls and silvery threads woven throughout, tucked into a calf-length plain ungathered blue skirt and old-fashioned lace-up knee-length leather boots. Her blonde hair, longer than Rose's own, was gathered in an attractive, loopy knot on the back of her head. _Not my usual style, but that outfit looks terrific. Wonder where she got it?_ Rose thought irreverently, then dismissed it to lay a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. "It's OK," she told her. "He'll be fine."

The other girl turned red-rimmed eyes on her in disbelief. " _Fine?_ " she croaked. "He's _dead!"_

Rose shook her head. "No, he's no-" she started to say, when Jack proved it himself, as he always did; sudden violently-tensing muscles wrenching his torso up off the floor as he took a huge gasp of air, his eyes flaring wide open and staring. His mourner echoed the gasp, falling away onto her hands, her eyes huge in mute disbelief.

Rose ignored her, reaching both hands for Jack's shoulders as he did a lightning-quick mental inventory and caught his breath, then smiled broadly at her. "Hello!" She laughed at him for the reminder of her first-ever words to his face, then stood, grabbing his hands and pulling him to his feet. Then, with a return "Hello!", she flung her arms around him for a hug, the first time she'd managed to actually greet him since this adventure had begun.

Laughing again, he hugged her back, then "What did I miss?"

She gave him a quick run-down of the events in the preceding two-and-a-half minutes, watching his face fall as he absorbed the news of the failure and the escape of their enemy. He looked over at Jared. "They need help," he said, his voice brooking no opposition.

Jared nodded. "Well, the next one is certainly going to get it." He'd skipped ahead, already picking out the next timeline and its associated jumper, and quickly ran the sonic over the waiting hands again of the two left standing. Neither of them matched, and he knew Reich Rose and his own weren't the ones, so it had to be Jack's beskirted mourner, still gaping from the floor. He reached a long arm to help her up, and she slowly climbed to her feet, gulping, before he verified it was her with the sonic.

"So who's going with her?" asked Jack.

"You are. This one has you written all over it."

"Why me?"

Jared grinned. "You know where you can get your hands on a pile of gold?"

"Of course!" came the matter-of-fact reply.

A beat. "You're not keeping it, you know!" Jared warned wryly.

Jack's grin widened. "Of course!" he replied with even more exaggerated matter-of-factness. "So who are we giving it to?" He turned a bit sideways and shot his new companion a look to include her in the process, then whirled back to Jared as another thought struck him. "Wait a second. If I go back with her and make the changes, I'll be in the parallel world. How will I get back here?"

"Still got your superphone?" Jared asked, pulling his own out of his pocket.

"Of course!" came the third echo and mirror action.

"Then simple. After you're done, take her back to the day of her kidnapping," Jared explained, matching actions to words by programming the date in question into the jumper, "then come back to this time – mark it now! – and call us on the superphone. We'll bring you back with the cannon here!"

"Roger that!" Jack quickly marked the time plus five minutes on his own jumper. Then he backtracked to his earlier question. "So who are we giving the gold to, then?"

"Emperor Constantine the Eleventh, last ruler of the Byzantine Empire – in our history, that is. In 1453 the Ottoman Turks under Sultan Mehmed the Second laid siege to the city of Constantinople, all that was left of the empire, and conquered it, sacking the city and renaming it Istanbul. Constantine might have been able to hold them off if he'd been able to retain the services of one Orban, the man who went over to the Turks and built for them the largest cannon ever designed, that they then used to batter down Constantinople's walls. Unfortunately, Constantine's treasury was completely empty. So your gold... will be to keep Orban in the city to defend it." Jared paused in his recital, looking over at Byzantine Rose's face, which had been growing steadily more astonished. "I take it you know the story?"

"Of _course_ I do?" she shot back sarcastically. When her listeners obviously didn't make the connection she'd lived with her whole life, she went on, "I'm named for Saint Rose!"

Jack and Jared glanced at each other, amused, then Jack dared to ask, " _Saint_ Rose?"

She rolled her eyes at his ignorance. "One of the two saints who saved the Holy City of Constantinople from the Turks! _Everyone_ knows that story!"

Jack fought to keep his grin off his face. "And what was the other saint's name?"

"Jac-" she managed to get out before it hit her, bursting though the French pronunciation she'd been giving it: Jacques.

His grin slipped out. "I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you weren't named for Saint Rose, you _are_ Saint Rose!"

* * *

 **Dance Three: Byzantine Pyrrhichios**

 **Treasure Hunt**

For millions of years, the rocky islet off the northern coast of Italy had seen few visitors other than its usual contingent of seabirds. No seeds dropped from those birds had managed to take root in stray pockets of dust, so the granite, upthrust at some remote primordial point by the shifting plates between Europe and Africa, was as barren as the moon that hung so far above. The occasional fisherman or small trader who drifted close to the dangerous teeth brushing the surface of the sea usually departed as swiftly as they had come, leaving nothing behind, not even a footprint, and taking nothing but a shivering memory of utter isolation.

Most of them, anyway.

The sun was blazing above on a sweet midsummer day, when a rivaling flash on the peak presaged the arrival – had anyone but the birds been watching – of two temporal travelers. As Byzantine Rose stared about them, hastily removing her hand from his, Jack quickly checked his jumper for the galactic date. "Hah! Perfect!" Pivoting slowly on one heel, he checked the rock formations against his old memory to get his bearings. "This way!" He settled the coiled rope that he'd unearthed from the remains of the Hub more firmly on his shoulder, patted his pockets for the handful of LED lights, and set off, leading her swiftly across the spine of the island towards the western point.

Rose scurried after him, fleetingly grateful at the impulse of that morning that had put her tough laceup boots on her feet rather than heels, as she hopped from rock to rock. "What is this place?" she called after his back.

He ignored her, looking for the exact spot on which to turn north, in order to find the right crack in the mountain, and set off again. She glared at his back, then deliberately paused a moment to gape at the scenery: a spectacular natural bridge leading to a tall rock pillar rising from the waves. Turning again, she barely spotted his head just before it disappeared, and hopped swiftly after him. Good thing she had; she'd have never found the crack on her own. She followed him down the miniature canyon, squeezing between the rock walls that quickly loomed overhead. The path – if you could call it that – of rain-weathered rock led down at a sharp forty-five degrees. She called after him to wait, but he couldn't hear her over the roar of the surf echoing from closely nearby; they were near the edge of the cliffs.

Suddenly he turned a corner and disappeared, and she slipped and slid after him. The canyon turned into a tunnel, leading off to the right, but there was just enough light from behind her to see, as she crept along, cautious now, her hands trailing along the stone. Oddly, as she walked carefully forward, a new light began to glow dimly from ahead. A dozen yards further on, the walls fell away from her touch as she came into a large cavern, and gasped, eyes aglow in wonder.

The cavern, about thirty feet across, stretched far above her head, where gaps in the roof let in a dim reflection of the blazing daylight outside. Below her feet, as she stood on a wide ledge at the side, she thought for a moment the floor was smooth glass – but then Jack switched on a couple of his mini torches a dozen feet to her left, and revealed the "floor" was the absolutely-still surface of a deep, deep pool of utterly clear water. He knelt and carefully attached the torch buttons to the side of the rock ledge, under the surface, and the refracting light turned the entire pool aglow.

"The water's so clear!" she breathed.

"It's rainwater, sweetheart, collected here for millenia. No outlet."

Rose stood for a moment drinking in the magical atmosphere, before the odd sounds to her left brought her attention back – but then she quickly averted her eyes again, flushing furiously. Jack was stripping! "What are you _doing?"_ she demanded.

"Going for a swim! And I don't want to wait for these clothes to dry before we leave – if you time jump with wet clothes, they either freeze instantly into dust and flake off, or burst into flame – I've never been able to figure that one out," he added curiously, before he glanced back at his companion – and stopped dead, gawping at her in return. "Whoa! What...?"

Rose, puzzled, glanced down at herself, then back at Jack, nonplussed. "What?" Her shirt looked normal to her.

"You're glowing." He informed her.

"Yeah. It's techglow blouse. Haven't you ever seen one before?" she scoffed.

He shook his head. "Obviously not."

"Oh. Well, they glow in the dark, but it takes a minute for it to come on – it had to absorb some sunlight up above, and then react slowly to the darkness down here. It's the threads – I don't know what they are." She shrugged.

Jack stepped back a pace and gave her an appraising once-over. The glow of the material was strengthening as he watched, radiating strongly enough to make him squint slightly. "That could come in handy," he commented.

"Oh, don't start that again," she huffed. "I'm _not_ a saint, I'm _not_ an angel, I'm _not_ the one who protected the Holy City. You'll see. We're witnesses, not the saints."

Jack listened to her protests, bemused, then nodded. "Well, this could be fun." Wondering briefly if the original Rose had given the Doctor that much trouble about time travel at first.

"Why are you going swimming?" she brought him back to the previous subject, managing to look at his face without letting her eyes drop down.

He gave her an ironic grin, and merely pointed down to the bottom of the pool.

Edging forward, she peered into the depths, and gasped. A dozen wooden chests ranging from small to humongous were scattered across the rocks twenty feet below. "Is that _treasure_?"

"Yup!" came the cheerful reply, and he dove in. The ripples managed to conceal his bare behind enough for her to watch him with a minimum of discomfort as he wrapped the end of the rope he'd brought around the smallest chest and tie it securely before grabbing another long slender bundle nearby and kicking back up to the surface. He laid the bundle on the rock ledge, handed her the other end of the rope to hold while he pulled himself out a couple of yards away and shook off the worst of the water, then retrieved the rope and hauled the casket up and out.

The box, about a foot high and wide and a foot-and-a-half long, looked aged and weathered, as though it had been resting in the pool with its brethren for centuries. Only a metal hasp held the latch closed, and Jack knocked it out with a small rock and then pried open the lid against the hinges' screeching protests.

Inside was just what Rose had half expected: brilliant, glittering golden coins filled it to the rim. Jaw dropping, she reached in and took out a handful, letting them fall back one by one. Jack grinned again at her and retrieved his vest from the pile to wipe off the rest of the water before getting dressed again.

"Whose is this?" Rose suddenly demanded, glancing around as if expecting a band of pirates to jump out from behind a rock.

"Well, a few years from now, it's going to belong to my friend Edmund Dantes, but right now he's still imprisoned in the Chateau d'If," came the nonsensical reply. She looked quizzically at him (relieved that he'd put his pants back on), but he just shook his head. "Don't worry, sweetheart. It's ours. Forget about who put it here, they are long dead and gone."

Catching sight of the other bundle again, she pointed at it. "What's that?"

"Something else that might come in handy," came the mysterious reply, but he didn't move to unwrap it and show her. She glared at him a moment, irritated at his arrogant secrecy, more than a little bothered by this whole so-called adventure.

She couldn't wait to be rid of him and get back to her safe, comfortable, familiar life.

* * *

 **Mass, Interrupted**

They came out of the trans-temporal flash, blinking heavily, while the thunder-clap died out -

\- into a concerted gasp from hundreds of throats, before ringing silence fell. Rose, feeling suddenly like the proverbial deer in the headlights, froze, only her eyes darting around at the faces massed before them. Then her eyes were drawn inexorably heavenward, towards a soaring, airy dome stretching impossibly high overhead, streaks of slanting sunlight from the side windows setting clouds of incense aglow.

"Hagia Sophia," she whispered reverently, recognizing the world's most famous cathedral instantly. "In the middle of mass." Slowly she turned her head to send Jack a glare that should have frozen his soul. "You did this on purpose!" was her steely accusation.

"Yup!" he grinned back, eyebrows flaring in amusement, utterly unrepentant. "Now _that's_ how to make an entrance!"

She drew breath to hiss him back to hell, but was interrupted by a middle-aged man walking hesitantly towards them, mouth agape, trying to find his dignity. He was apparently a nobleman, not a priest, though his "fine" clothes – while still elegant – had seen better days. He gave the pair of visitors a cautious bow, then offered a greeting – at least, that's what Jack assumed it was. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the man was saying. Jack opened his mouth to begin a smooth reply, shifting the box of gold under his arm and getting ready to supplement words with hand gestures -

\- when he suddenly realized that beside him Rose was already speaking, in the same language as the stranger. He stole a sideways glance at her flushed face and shut his mouth with a pop, turning back to smile winningly (albeit blankly).

"Please, my lord, we are not angels," Rose was saying, breathlessly, astonished at her own temerity. "We have come on behalf of the angels, though, to offer assistance in the defense of the city. You... you are the Emperor, Constantine, yes?"

"I have that honor, most gracious lady," came the courtly reply, all at odds with his shabby appearance. "You may well question it," he went on ruefully. "We have all fallen on hard times. And we are in desperate need of angelic assistance. The Turks..." Biting off an incipient rant, he closed both mouth and eyes for a moment, steadying himself with a deep breath. "Any help you can offer will be gladly received."

"There is one here called Orban, who comes from the north? Who says he can build weapons?"

"Yes, there is." Constantine was startled, but then shook his head. "But he is leaving. We cannot pay him."

Rose smiled, drawing it out, then turned it to Jack and motioned towards the box. He got the message, and turned it towards Constantine, flinging back the lid dramatically.

The entire congregation gasped again at the glitter of gold nestled within the chest. As the Emperor, eyes wide in wonder, slowly reached a shaking hand for a few coins, Jack slipped out the side of his mouth, "You speak Greek..."

"Of course!" she replied with the same "duh" note she'd been using. "It's the liturgical language of the Holy Church!"

And finally the light dawned. "You're Orthodox!"

"What else? It _is_ the only Christian church!"

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off, as the Emperor suddenly slid to his knees, openly weeping, reaching for Rose's hand and pressing kisses to it. She tried to stop him, but he looked up at her – and then his eyes slid past her face, far up the wall behind them, and dawning wonder set his face aglow. "Of course!" he whispered. "Blessed holy mother, the legends are true. You have come to protect your holy city."

Bewildered, both the visitors swiveled slowly around, peering above their shoulders. And there, in a glorious blue-and-gold stained glass window...

...was a vision of Rose herself, as the Virgin Mary. There was no mistaking her blonde hair, her lovely features.

They twisted back and stared at each other, Rose in shock, Jack trying his very best to smother a smirk and slowly losing.

"You... are... so... dead..." she hissed in fury, then turned back to raise Constantine from the floor with more protestations. He jumped up, recovering, and shouted for his men-at-arms, and began to sweep the two "angels" out to stop the imminent departure of the cannon-maker, Orban of Hungary.

"As always." Jack said to the air and followed.

* * *

 **Escape...**

Rose slunk into the bedchamber she'd been given in Constantine's palace, closing the door firmly in the servant's startled face, and then wilted suddenly against the back, trembling.

How had she ever thought this would be an adventure? She hated it – hated every second she spent in this horrible, beautiful, holy place. Even though she'd taken to wearing a large, plain piece of cloth, shawl-like, covering her blouse and her hair, she was still instantly recognized and followed every moment by crowds large and small. They all stared at her continuously, as if they expected her to toss rainbows from her fingertips, heal all the sick in the city, and fling the Persian army across the world with a glance. All her protestations that she was just a visiting human, a woman like everyone else, fell on deaf ears – and she'd quickly begun simply keeping her mouth shut. The past two weeks had surely lasted longer than two years!

Jack and the Emperor had hit it off like thieves, and spent every moment together, riding around to inspect the city's defenses and direct the crews working on various repairs, checking Orban's work, and talking long into the night about wars and strategy, while Rose herself had trailed along haplessly in their wake. She'd acted as Jack's interpreter in the beginning, but he'd seemed to soak up the language like water, and needed her less and less as the days went by. Now she merely sat or walked or ate silently, mute but far from unnoticed, enduring the stares and whispers as best she could. There was simply nothing else she could do.

Pushing off from the door, she drifted across the room and sat on the edge of her wide bed, pushing her sleeve up over the time jumper and checking it automatically. Still no change from the glaring white background. She'd asked Jack to show her how to use it and he'd at least taught her what some of the buttons did, although he maintained that fully understanding the details of programming it would take months of hard work and advanced mathematics. Still, she idly played with it, punching in numbers and symbols without comprehension, carefully staying away from the combination that would activate it.

"Most holy and gracious lady..." came a whispered greeting from the window. Gasping in shock, Rose jerked her head up and stared at the bedraggled woman who had appeared there, holding an obviously sick toddler in her arms. Another penitent had somehow snuck in to ask her for healing.

And as suddenly as that, she Could. Not. Take. Any. More.

Without even checking to see what was in the window, she stabbed the Activate button, and the woman, baby, and despised room disappeared from view in the trans-temporal blaze.

^..^

Of course, as she'd been sitting down, she landed hard on her butt at the other end. Coughing from the miniature dust storm her arrival had raised, Rose struggled to her feet, rubbing her backside and looking warily around at the chaotic scene. At least it was quiet – and apparently empty. She'd landed in a workshop of some sort, wood and glass and pots of paint piled everywhere, with drawings and plans scattered about willy-nilly. Every surface was covered with junk. When and where was she?

She started to look at the jumper to see if she could make sense of the data, when a clatter to her right drew her attention. She wasn't alone after all. A young man was standing, gaping at her (oh, how tired she was of seeing tonsils!) a few feet away in the clutter, the small pile of wood he'd just inadvertently kicked over still settling.

"Where am I? When?" she asked him, but he just continued to gape, no flicker of comprehension crossing his face.

"I just want to go home." She wasn't any closer to it now, obviously. There was only one way to get there that she could see. She pushed the recall button on the jumper, as she'd done a thousand times the past fortnight, just to see the date and (presumably) location of her kidnapping dance across the time piece – and this time, went ahead and activated it, jumping to the future and out of the stranger's workshop.

And behind her, the glass artisan sank to his knees, in awe of his answered prayer for divine inspiration – and then scrambled to his feet again, grabbing some nearby charcoal to sketch out her heavenly features, and began to transfer it to stained glass for the centerpiece icon for the glorious cathedral being built down the street in this new eastern Roman capital, Constantinople.

^..^

At least this time she landed on her feet – although the hard headlong smash into a brick wall two stumbling steps out of the blaze didn't do much to help her mood. She managed to stay upright, reaching a hand to the wall to steady herself and catch her breath, then looked around to see where she'd arrived. It proved to be a dingy, dirty, but blessedly modern-looking alley – and the noise of traffic from a few yards to her right sounded just about right for a contemporary city.

Desperate now, Rose ran to the mouth of the alley and nearly whooped in relief: yes, this was undoubtedly Wynburne Avenue – look, there was her favorite big bookstore just across the street! She was less than a block away from the small city park where she'd been grabbed by Corvantes' goon. Choking back sobs, she dashed that direction, ignoring both the odd looks of passersby and the glimpses of shops that just didn't seem right for some reason. She skidded to a halt at the corner, though, gaping in slowly-dawning horror.

The park wasn't there.

Instead, a parking garage soared high above her head, five stories at least; the crumbling, paint- and oil-stained concrete with its complement of tattered posters and billboards proclaiming its age – it hadn't replaced her beloved little green overnight.

She stared back and forth from the garage to the street corner signs, verifying over and over that she was at the right place. Just to her right was a news stand, and she drifted over to unwillingly check the date on the papers piled there.

Of course, it was the date of her kidnapping. She wasn't likely to forget it.

The weight of the time jumper on her wrist caught her attention again, and she pulled her arm up in slow motion and pushed the recall button one last time. The backlight was still white. She was still in Alpha Universe.

Farther from home than ever.

* * *

 **.. and Rescue**

Shell-shocked, Rose wandered about the strange city for hours, finding a few similarities to her own London, but even more differences. Everywhere she looked, favorite shops had been replaced, schools and parks were misplaced and misnamed, and every one of the houses and flats she'd lived in during her life were utterly missing. And most confusing were the churches. Every house of worship which in her world had been graced by the traditional onion domes and clean white marble lines splashed with vivid, vibrant colors was in this world changed to an astonishing array of – to her eyes – ugly grey square boxes with exposed ribs serrating the edges, tall sharply-pointed spires stabbing the sky, and with the awkward descriptor "Anglican" after the name, rather than the softer, familiar "Orthodox".

It was altogether an alien world. The bits of similarity only made the differences more dramatic, and infinitely worse.

Now, it was drawing towards dusk, and people were hurrying home. She found herself in the middle of yet another conglomeration of flats; huge concrete blocks scattered this way and that. Nearby was a sign proclaiming the grandiose title of "Powell Estates" for the obviously run-down public housing. With nowhere to go and no way to get there, Rose sank down on a high curb, wrapping her arms around her torso and trying to hold the desolation at bay.

Suddenly the air was split with an ecstatic shout – which startled her down to her toes, because it was her very own name!

 _"ROSE!"_

She jerked her head up and stared at the young, handsome black man who thundered towards her, grabbing her hands and scooping her up into a tremendous hug before she could draw breath to protest. Frozen solid with shock, she stared over his shoulder at the pretty black woman who ran up as well, mirroring his wide, happy grin.

"Oh my god! How did you get here? When? Why didn't you call us?" The man interrupted his pelting questions with a darted kiss on her cheek – which further shock suddenly jarred loose her limbs and and mouth.

She swiftly brought her hands up and pushed him violently away. "Get off me!"

Their grins melted instantly away, his into wounded outrage, hers into surprise. "Well, there's a nice hello!" he replied. "What's the matter with you? After all we've been through?"

"I don't know who you are! I've never seen you before!"

"What?" the strange woman turned bewildered eyes on her mate's – which suddenly widened as inspiration struck.

"You're not my Rose! You're a duplicate, aren't you? From a parallel world?"

Miserable, Rose nodded. "Well, this is certainly not _my_ world."

Martha, for of course it was she, instantly became sympathetic, and laid a friendly hand on the visitor's shoulder, introducing herself and her husband. "I'm Martha Smith, and this is Mickey. He knew your... twin... from way back."

Mickey nodded. "We grew up together, Rose and me. But now she's stuck in a parallel world herself. Look... I'm sorry for manhandling you like that, then."

Rose tried to smile, but only managed a quivering grimace, tears threatening. Martha saw, of course, and instantly took charge, shushing her, then taking her hand and leading her quickly up the stairs to their flat. Then she settled the still-trembling blonde firmly into a shabby-but-comfortable couch and puttered around the kitchen making tea and starting a simple supper while Mickey disappeared into the bedroom to change clothes.

A short time later found the trio around the dining table sharing soup and bread. Rose discovered she instinctively liked the couple – although there seemed to be a bit of more romantic personal history between Mickey and her "twin" than Martha seemed quite comfortable with, but Rose defused the situation with a wildly-grabbed question about the local school system and the awkward moment passed.

"All right, then," Mickey returned to the subject at hand at last. "How did you get to this world?" And Rose told them about her kidnapping, snatched out of the blue and taken across the Void to this world by direction of the chilling stranger, Paul Corvantes; meeting the six other Roses; getting rescued by Jack and Jared – both the Smiths' faces lit up at _those_ names – and finally, the only way Jared could think of to get them each home again. She brushed by the other two previous "adventures" and told them of her own proposed role at the siege of Constantinople (neither of them knew a thing about it). With Jack.

"Oi! Then that's what we've got to do!" Mickey reached a long arm for the phone. "Just call Jack up in Cardiff – he should be there now – and he'll get you back to the right time!"

"I wonder if he's already done it?" Martha mused, bewildering Rose yet again, and she smiled, waving a vaguely dismissive hand in the air. "Time travel. You'll get used to it."

Rose shuddered. "I sincerely hope not. I don't _want_ to get used to it. I just want to get home!"

Martha clucked consolingly, hiding her surprise at this departure from "their" Rose's adventuresome spirit. _She'd_ never been such a homebody.

Mickey was frowning as he listened to the lonely ringing. "No answer at the Hub. I'll try his mobile."

"No need," came a masculine voice from the front door. None of them had heard it open. Captain Jack Harkness was leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, smirking. Of course. "I'm already here."

* * *

 **Comparisons**

"Oh, look," Mickey said flatly, pretending disdain for his old friend. "The bad penny."

"Fuzz-head," Jack shot back as he closed the front door, then swaggered over to the table, bussing Martha on his way past and hooking the fourth chair out. "Oh, don't worry, I'm at the same spot in the story she is," he explained as he sprawled on the chair, forestalling any queries about whether he knew what was going on.

"How did you find me?" Rose asked glumly.

Jack hooked a sardonic eyebrow at her and tapped the time jumper on his own wrist. "Where else would you have disappeared to? I didn't know the time, or the exact location, but I knew the date. And since I got here, about two hours ago, I've been tracking your jumper with mine. Figures you'd end up here. Did you grow up in the same place?"

"No," she told him, grimacing. "I'm not even sure where this is. I don't know how I ended up here – coincidence, I guess."

"No such thing," he replied, not bothering to explain, but she picked up on it anyway.

"So this is where... _she_ lived then?"

"Yup," Mickey put in. "The building across the way there."

Rose sighed. "She must be something really special, huh?" Her glum voice made it obvious she didn't extend that opinion to herself.

Mickey drew breath to agree with the spoken sentiment (ignoring Martha's involuntary flinch), when Jack overrode him. "Not really," he said nonchalantly, netting himself startled looks from the Smiths. "Just an ordinary shop girl. Never even got her A-levels. The most common, everyday person in the world." Pausing for emphasis, he looked straight into Rose's puzzled eyes. "But you know what she did that made a difference? What she always does?"

Rose shook her head, miserable but curious.

"She stepped up." A pause for emphasis. "Whenever there was a situation – danger, injustice.. big or small... she stepped up and did what she could, whatever it took, to try to set the situation right. Might not have been much, what she could do... maybe something as simple as speaking up and saying 'no', or... pushing a button under fire, or... standing up to somebody she cared about when they were about to do something wrong." He paused, remembering, then shot her another grin. "First time I ever laid eyes on her, you know where she was? In mid-air, over London, in the middle of an air raid – World War II," he said aside to Martha, not knowing if this Rose had the same wars in her history. "Just dangling in mid-air, hanging onto a rope underneath a giant barrage balloon, floating through the dive bombers and anti-aircraft bullets. You know how she got there? She'd grabbed the rope to climb up a building, to try to save a young boy who was about to fall off it. That's it. She saw a situation and just stepped up, doing what she could to help. That's Rose. That's what made her special – what still makes her special."

Rose had been listening, to the subtext, as well. "I guess you're saying that's what I need to do, too."

Jack nodded, kindly. "If you want to get home again. I can't do this by myself. I need your help."

"But what can I do? What can _I_ – _possibly_ – do?"

"Just step up. Could be something as simple as... standing in the right place, at the right moment, in front of the right people... and saying 'no'." He leaned over and took her hand, speaking earnestly. "Look... I'm not expecting you to work a miracle. That's not what this is about. That's not what's needed – not what you or I would think is a miracle. But the effect of what we're going to do together... that's _going_ to be miraculous, to the people watching, and they're going to turn it into a miracle in the stories they'll build around it in the centuries between then and now." He stopped again, smiling almost to himself. "Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Every story you've ever heard about a 'miracle'," his voice made air quotes, "had at its heart some ordinary person, who did some ordinary thing, that was made into something extraordinary by the circumstances and the storytellers who came after to tell about it."

Silence fell over the table for a long moment, as Rose struggled before their eyes to believe in herself.

"I jumped worlds once," Mickey put in, gathering their eyes and diverting them. "Same world Rose is now in, before I came back. But there was another version of me in that world. Rickey, he was called, instead of Mickey. And he was brave, too – braver than I was at the time. He stepped up. And he taught me to do it, by example. I became like him. Because I wanted people to believe in me like they believed in him."

"Did it work?" Jack asked, not teasing for once.

Mickey raised his eyebrows, then silently turned the question to Martha.

She smiled. "I didn't know you before, but now... you're one of the bravest men I've ever known. I wouldn't have married you otherwise."

He reflected the smile back to his wife, then it softened as he turned back to Rose. "You're basically the same person as our Rose, underneath, just as much as I was the same as Rickey. I know you've got it in you – the same spunk she's got. I know you can do it. There's no doubt in my mind."

Rose looked down at the table for a moment, then made herself take a deep breath and square her shoulders. "All right," she said softly. She looked back at Jack. "I'll try."

"That's all there is to it," was his approving reply.

* * *

 **Back to the Fire**

Knowing that Rose wouldn't be able to hold up under another prolonged period of scrutiny, Jack flashed himself and her back to Constantinople a few weeks after the night she had fled. Rose found herself refocusing her eyes from the searing blaze once more upon the soft, holy illumination of the Hagia Sofia, and took a moment to breathe in the ghost of incense, feeling it creep soothingly deep inside herself.

It was the last calm moment she'd have.

There wasn't a mass being said at the moment – in fact, the cathedral was nearly deserted. The guttering candles providing the only light – the pitch-black windows showing it was late at night – cast their flickering over but a few soldiers wearily standing guard at the back, and a lone, haggard, but familiar figure kneeling in prayer at the altar.

Emperor Constantine jerked his head up with a gasp at their brilliant, thundercracking arrival, his expression sliding instantly into something even more rapturous – and more desperate – that the first time. He sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "By all the holy saints above! Where have you _been_? We thought you had deserted us to ruin!"

"What's the situation?" Jack cut across the man's incipient rant, bringing the military leader out of the emperor instantly.

"We are besieged. The Turks have had us surrounded these forty days, and been battering down the walls. The accursed Mehmed has made no secret of his plan: his final assault will come at dawn!"

"What about Orban's cannon?" Jack asked sharply. That _had_ been the major part of the plan, after all.

But Constantine shook his head with a snarl. "Speak not that accursed name! He was in truth an Ottoman spy, who had no intention of helping us. Days after you disappeared, he slipped out of the city with the rest of the gold, and took it and his services directly to Mehmed, with news of all our defenses, as well. The cannon he built, he built for the Turks, and they have been blasting holes in our weakest walls with it these weeks. He even named the monster, apparently for an old legend of his country. He called it the Bad Wolf."

Rose wondered at the grin that flittered briefly across Jack's face, but Constantine didn't see it.

"Then we've no time to lose," Jack replied. "They aren't going to wait until dawn, they're going to attack just after midnight." He shot Rose a level look. "It's volcano day." Not bothering to explain that mysterious comment, he turned back to Constantine. "The Saint Romanus Gate is where they've concentrated their cannon fire?"

Constantine nodded, bewildered at his foreknowledge, but then again... He started to turn towards the door, ready to mount the horse he must have had waiting outside to ride the twelve miles to the city walls, but Jack forestalled him.

"No time for horses. Grab my arm." He punched the coordinates of the gatehouse – noted during their previous rides of inspection – into the jumper, leaving the time alone, yelled "Meet us at the gate! Gather everyone and bring them there!" to the waiting guards, swiftly made sure both Rose and Constantine were holding on to either upper arm, and flashed them out of the cathedral.

It was a tossup as to who was more astonished at the method of his arrival, the Emperor or his second-in-command, already there by the huge old gate. The lower, outer wall built a thousand years before by the Emperor Theodosius showed unmistakable signs of its long bombardment – great holes had been smashed into it daily by the Turks' several cannons (the Bad Wolf was the largest, but not the only, cannon they had), while every night, the defenders had tipped great mounds of earth and rubble into the breaches in repair. That rubble proved an unexpected blessing – it was even better at absorbing the monster boulders thrown by the cannons with even less damage. Still, though, enough of the wall had been destroyed to make an assault practicable.

And that assault was unmistakably coming. The patterns of the distant torches showed a massive gathering of men, spread almost as far as they could see into the night, and a trio of huge bonfires in the center made no bones about both the location of the Turkish Sultan Mehmed, and the avenue of their coming attack.

"My lord!" The second found his voice. "Thank God you have arrived. I sent for you just minutes ago. They are about to begin, I am sure of it."

"Any sign of the demon this night?"

"No, my lord."

"Demon?" Jack put in, his ears pricked up.

The Emperor nodded. "The last two nights, some demon has been at work in the no-man's-land between the armies, just there out of range of our lights. We could see it, but couldn't make out what it was up to."

"Why do you call it a demon, then?"

"Because it was out of light, but not out of arrow range. It was hit – we are sure of that – but then got up again a minute later and ran off. What else could it be but a demon?"

Jack barked a short, sharp laugh. "Well, I've been called worse," he said to no one in particular.

"All right," he went on, making up his mind. "Now I know what to do. Rose..." Looking around, he drew her into the small guard room in the tower, telling an astonished Constantine, "We'll be back out shortly. Do NOT disturb us; we have preparations to make, for the final defense of the city," before shutting the door in his face.

"What _are_ we going to do?" Rose asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. This was so far beyond what she had expected. She was about to witness – hell, somehow _prevent_ – a full-scale, medieval battle!

Jack looked quickly around the guardroom. It wasn't much, just a few paces across, with a small table and a couple of chairs on one side. He sat her down in one of them, and squatted down before her.

"I'm going to lay it all out, but first I need to fetch a few things. I need you to stay right here, on this chair, and _don't move._ I'll be back in five minutes. I _promise_. OK?"

She took a deep breath. "OK."

Beaming that cocky Captain Jack smile, he touched her cheek. "That's my girl." Then he stood and backed into the center of the room, and carefully bookmarked the _precise_ time and space coordinates of that spot, before thinking a moment, punching in another series of numbers, and flashing out into the unknown.

The next three-and-a-half minutes were the longest of Rose's life, but she managed to sit still, by concentrating on just breathing. Sounds drifted in through the closed door, of a massive crowd of people gathering below and behind the wall – the citizens of Constantinople had come to defend their city in its final battle. Just as she recognized the sound, another intruded: a huge, distant explosion. From the cries of the men outside, she realized it was a cannon, and held her breath until it landed, evidently a short distance north along the wall.

She was starting to lose the battle against her nerves when the air was split with welcome thunder, and Jack returned, carrying a very large crate balanced precariously on one shoulder, and a long, skinny, yet somehow familiar package held awkwardly under the other arm.. He set the crate on the floor with a grunt, and sat on it to catch his breath, leaning the package up against his knees. Rose caught her own breath, too, and found herself kneeling beside him before she was aware of moving. He was obviously exhausted – and filthy.

"What in the name of all the saints have you been up to?" She couldn't decide if she was concerned or bemused.

"Hey..." he said tiredly. "It's tough work, being a demon." He shook his head. "But never mind. Listen. This is what we're going to do."

* * *

 **Armageddon**

For the remainder of her life, Rose would marvel in secret about how simple it all was. A couple of stage props, some modern weapons, an ancient myth, and crowd psychology.

But she would always wonder about the clouds...

Coming out of the guardroom, Jack paused to confer with Constantine. "Are your soldiers ready for battle?"

"My _people_ are ready," was the steady, confident reply, with a hand waved in a grand gesture back towards the city. Crowding behind the wall were thousands of civilians – old men and young boys, women and girls, everyone who was not a proper soldier – stood in tense silence, whatever they could find for a weapon clutched in white-knuckled hands, for all knew that one way or another, this was the end of the siege. By nightfall the next evening they might all be dead, but none of them would live under Turkish rule.

Jack nodded, impressed in spite of himself at the courage on display. For her part, Rose felt a little faint, but repeated under her breath the words that had become her new mantra: "Step up, Rose. Just step up. You can do it."

"Any shots from the big cannon?"

"None for hours," the second-in-command replied. "We think Mehmed's holding it to announce the attack. They've been firing the other four regularly all day, as before."

"Perfect," Jack said with a grin, then gave Constantine a modern salute. "My lord, with your permission, we'll go aloft to do our part."

Startled and confused, he queried, "Aloft?"

Jack pointed to the tiny outer staircase leading to the top of the tower above the guardroom, the highest point for a mile in either direction. Constantine nodded, bemused, then turned his eyes towards his hope of Heaven's favor. "My lady... I cannot tell you what your presence means this night. Bless you. And thank you."

"Thank me after, my lord. If this works." Without waiting for a reply, Rose turned and climbed the stairs, Jack struggling behind, manhandling the crate once more on his shoulder. Rose stopped at the top and knelt to unwrap the long, slender package Jack had finally given to her below, while he swiftly unpacked the crate, piling those contents to one side of the platform. The oiled canvas of Rose's bundle seemed ancient, with cracks showing it had been recently opened, while the rope itself appeared new, its knots coming apart easily for her. Jack had told her he'd taken the contents out and polished it at night during their previous stay in the city, before her precipitous run for the future. She pulled it out and stood, holding it by her side while she joined Jack at the parapet, waiting for the enemy.

They didn't have long to wait.

Straining their eyes through the darkness towards the Turkish hordes, they listened hard for the sounds they knew would be coming. The thick cloud cover overhead had glowered down upon the city on the Golden Horn since the siege had commenced, as if to signal the end of all things, never letting a single ray of sun nor moon through, so now their ears had to do double duty.

And there it was, the cacophonous martial "music" the Turks had become famous for. A huge crash of drums and blaring of trumpets, without tune or time, rolled across the low plain towards the waiting city, and behind it, the shouting of tens of thousand of voices.

"That's our cue," Jack said. He lifted her up to stand atop the upended crate, so everyone on both sides of the wall could see her, and she at last dropped the shawl that had been covering her blouse. Taking four of his button LED torches out of his pocket, Jack turned them on and set them on the floor around her, spotlighting her slender form. The techglow blouse which had startled him back in the treasure cave caught the light and almost instantly began soaking it in and sending it back out, its glow after being hidden so long swiftly flaring to near incandescense.

Far below them, the crowd began to gasp and cry out, pointing upwards at the vision which had appeared high above their heads. They knew who she was, from her previous visit, and from the ancient story of protection by the Mother of God in another siege, another war, so very many centuries ago. Slowly a new sound began to gather, from the throats of the citizens: "Agios Rodo! Agios Rodo!" Saint Rose, Saint Rose, the Greeks proclaimed her name.

"Now, Rose!" Jack cried.

And she unsheathed the sword.

Drawn slowly out of its scabbard and then raised high over her head with both hands, the silver blade caught the lights from the torches and her own blouse, and sent it flashing outwards, even more brilliant than those sources, blazing a signal to every eye that the city of Constantinople would be defended.

And at that moment, the clouds which had locked the heavens away for all the long duration of the siege parted, and a brilliant shaft of pure white streamed down from the full moon high overhead, hitting the tower and the Lady standing upon it with Heaven's own spotlight.

The very world seemed to pause, every voice still for an endless, aching moment of wonder.

And then, as if in response, the cannon named Bad Wolf roared.

The silence held on the city's side, as every eye strained to watch the arc of the monstrous cannonball, black tinged with fiery red, against the darker sky. Weeks before the cannon's maker had found the perfect range, so that every time it fired, another section of the wall fell. But not this time.

Whether by some chance of mismeasurement of powder, or an oddity in the size or shape of rock selected, or some unknown divine intervention, the missile fell short by a hundred yards, landing with a tremendous, noisy – but ultimately ineffectual – impact in the no-man's-land before the gate.

Rose felt a fury rise inside that she'd never felt before. The ball had been headed directly towards her position, towards the gate guarding the city she'd come to love. Without thinking, she lowered the sword until it pointed directly at the distant cannon, still glowing in the dark.

Jack grinned at the sight, and dutifully fired. The heat-seeking missile he'd brought back from the twenty-first century, packed into the crate with a half-dozen others and the shoulder rocket launcher, screamed a baleful warning towards the Turks, its own flaming flight much easier to follow. It homed in on the Bad Wolf's heat signature – the cannon had always taken three hours to cool down enough to reload – and managed by some miracle of trajectory physics to fly right down through the barrel of the beast and detonate deep inside its evil heart. The resulting explosion was possibly the largest the world had ever seen to that day – certainly the largest the Turks had ever seen – and it cut a swath through the soldiers standing within a hundred yards as if by a giant scythe.

Jack swiftly reloaded and fired again, and again, sending four more missiles out to destroy the other four cannons, still hot from being fired as fast as they could these past weeks, then he let the launcher slip from his shoulder and rested it on the floor, waiting.

The crowds behind the walls couldn't see the damage that had been done, but they saw the firedrakes being launched by Saint Rose's companion, apparently by magic, and they heard the explosions from afar. They took up the chant of her name again, and were soon screaming it out loud enough for the enemy to hear clearly.

Mehmed seemed to be having trouble with his soldiers – the ranks in the front were hesitating to charge. Finally his commanders got them whipped up again, and sent them streaming forward. And that was when his fatal mistake became clear to all. For those first ranks, in their tens of thousands, were not the elite Muslim Janissaries, nor the Serbian cavalry on loan from their king, but were squadron after squadron of Christian foot soldiers, many of them mercenaries. All of them knew the stories of that previous siege, when the Mother of God herself had come down to protect the city. And all of them could now see the vision in white atop the tower, and hear the chanted blessed name.

Nevertheless, their training (and perhaps fear of their masters) took over, and at last they were chivvied forward, taking courage from the masses behind them, the still-playing martial music, and each other. Faster and faster they trotted, then ran, giving voice to their defiance.

And then they hit the mines.

Jack "the demon" had indeed been busy. He'd never tell Rose how long he'd been gone, but it had taken most of those two previous nights to sew the field with a hundred anti-personnel mines. He hadn't liked doing it, having been on the receiving end a couple of times, but he'd seen no other way to ensure the city's safety.

Blast after blast shredded the Turks, far too quickly to count, but Jack was fairly certain afterwards that every one had been tripped. All across the field, the entire front line collapsed, and those behind halted in fear, horror and confusion at this dreadful new occurrence, when the ground itself seemed to rise up against them.

The nearly endless-seeming series of blasts had halted the chanting, as the citizens of the city strained to understand what was going on out of their view. Jack whipped around and shouted them up again, and the cries of "Agios Rodo! Agios Rodo!" streamed out with renewed vigor, rolling clearly across the field.

The remaining Christians in the Turkish army heard, and now they could see her clearer, the shining vision of an unearthly woman standing high above the city with her flashing sword (which Jack had her raise again).

And to a man, they turned and fled.

Back through the masses of the rear guards, their commanders unable to stop them, the foot soldiers ran in blind religious panic, wanting only to get as far away from this celestial battlefield as possible. Mehmed, his face purple with rage, snarled for his commanders to let them go, and then gave the order for the cavalry and elite Janissaries to advance.

Jack, watching closely from the tower, sighed heavily. He hadn't wanted to do this – it was too close to assassination – but now he had no choice. He loaded the rocket launcher with one final missile, then pulled out a small metal tube, flicked it on, placed it on the parapet's edge and sighted down it carefully. He wasn't going to ask Rose to hold it. Then he shouldered the launcher and fired. The missile locked onto the laser like it was supposed to, flew in a graceful, deadly arc, and landed in the middle of the command post. Mehmed and his commanders were instant casualties.

That did it for the Turks. Even the Janissaries threw down their weapons, turned their horses or their own feet, and streamed after the Christians. Their guaranteed victory had just turned into a route, without the loss of a single Greek.

Constantine's men let out a tremendous cheer, which spread behind the walls instantly, and the entire population of Constantinople raised their voices in mad, glorious, triumphant elation, snatched from certain death and destruction by an angel. Said angel turned slowly and gazed around, then gave an awkward wave to her wildly appreciative audience.

Jack flicked off the button torches and lifted her down off the crate, draping her shawl around her shoulders again to hide the glow, then they paused, catching their breaths and staring at each other in relief and surprise.

And at that moment, the gap in the clouds closed up again, the brilliant shaft of moonlight melting swiftly away to darkness.

Rose looked up in startled wonder, then her mouth twisted wryly as she turned back to her time-traveling companion from the far future, with an amazing variety of tricks up his sleeve. "All right, I give up. How in the world did you do that?"

Jack gazed at her, his habitual grin dribbling away, then slowly shook his head. "That wasn't me, sweetheart. I had absolutely _nothing_ to do with it. I swear... it _wasn't me_."

She stared back in shocked disbelief, glanced swiftly at the now-closed, monotone night sky, and shivered.

* * *

 **Home**

Jack reached for the laser and stuffed it in his pocket along with the button torches, then picked up the rocket launcher and settled it casually across his shoulder. He'd learned not to leave anything futuristic lying around, but there was no need to repack the crate – he'd used up all the missiles.

Rose picked up the scabbard from where she'd dropped it, but paused in the act of resheathing the sword, taking a good look at it for the first time. It was exquisite, worked in solid silver, polished to a mirror finish, with a huge red ruby set into one side of the hilt. She glanced up at Jack. "Do you need this back?"

"No. Go ahead and keep it, if you want."

She smiled, a touch of something behind it that he couldn't quite make out. "No, it's not for me. It's a sacred relic. The _ksifos ths dikaiosynhs._ The Sword of Justice."

Jack laughed, then stopped her again, and motioned towards her wrist. She took a deep breath, finished slipping the sword home, then reached a trembling finger to touch the recall button on the time jumper.

The backlight had turned from white to a soothing orange.

Her wide eyes flew back to Jack's, tears starting, pleading with him to say it, not daring to say it herself. Chuckling at her, he obliged.

"Congratulations, Rose. You did it. You can go home now."

" _We_ did it," she corrected, and gave him the first full smile he'd ever had from this version of his old friend.

They didn't waste time below, but presented the sword to a trembling, awe-struck Emperor Constantine, then Rose pushed the activate button and flashed back to 21st-century London, hand-in-hand with Captain Jack Harkness.

^..^

They stayed that way while they calmly watched Corvantes' goon snatch her former self away from the park, then walked slowly towards the other side, the same direction she'd been strolling before the whole adventure began.

"Well, what now?" Jack finally asked, strangely reluctant to let go and move on, even though he knew Jared and the other flowers were waiting. _Plenty of time on this end of history,_ he told himself again.

Rose stopped and turned towards her companion, giving him a level, measuring look.

"You've never asked me what I am here." She paused, but before he could echo the question back to her, she lifted her chin proudly and went on. "I'm a teacher. Or I'm about to be – I get my certificate next week. And I've already received two job offers."

She turned then and pointed across the park to a large, sprawling white building, which looked vaguely church-like to Jack. "One of them right there, in my old school, the state-run Orthodox neighborhood school. The other one was from a new experimental, private, secular school a few blocks down that way." Her waved a vague hand off to the right, then her face twisted with a rueful, amused grimace. "Up till five minutes ago," waving a hand behind them at the scene of the kidnapping so he knew what she meant, "it was a no-brainer."

"And now?"

She didn't answer, but shot him one last, level look, before the famous Rose supernova smile crept across her face. Without a word, she reached up and kissed his cheek, squeezed his hand a final time, then turned and walked away. To the right.

He stood there a moment, watching her go, then yelled after her, "Hey!" When she looked back, he grinned. "Keep in touch!"

She turned around fully, fists on her hips, mock-belligerent. "Not for an entire chest full of gold!" Then, laughing broadly, she waved her hands between them as if writing runes in the air. "Begone, foul Demon of the Night!"

And with that, she whirled around again, and began walking swiftly into her bright new future.


	5. Dance 4 Tudor Pavanne

**Third Intermission**

Smiling broadly, Jared and Rose watched Jack flash out to wherever he was planning to pick up his "pile of gold", Byzantine Rose reluctantly clutching his arm. The pair then turned to watch the monitors – a move that was in danger of becoming routine – but Rose found herself looking sideways at Jared, instead. He caught her look. "What?"

Smiling slightly, Rose shook her head, then admitted softly, "It's nice to see you finally trusting Jack."

He thought a moment, then shook his head in return. "I've always _trusted_ him. It's just that... now I actually _like_ him." His smile turned wry as he added, "Eleven-eighty-seven," and she snorted. He'd been keeping a mental catalog of the differences he discovered between himself and the Doctor, attributable to his half-human side and Donna's influence. How he remembered the count, she didn't know, but he hadn't missed once as far as she could tell.

The displays caught their eyes again, the cheerful orange timeine traces – even darker and more determined than the failed lines of the last attempt – of Byzantine Rose's world rippling back into existence alongside Alpha and Celtic Rose's. _"Yes!"_ cried Rose, and sighs of relief came from the others waiting, banishing the specter of Corvantes derailing the previous attempt once again. Rose turned back to Jared and asked again, "Who's next?", as giddy as she'd ever been, wanting to keep the momentum going.

Two jumps ahead as usual, Jared was already running through the program, picking up the right jumper and turning to the waiting Roses. Reich Rose, he saw, was still watching sourly from her perch, and he wondered briefly how she was going to handle her turn. Then he put her out of his mind to smile broadly at the next adventuress, picked out by the sonic.

"You are!" he told her – but then the woman beside her sighed in frustrated disappointment.

The next Rose turned to her. "Do you want to go next?" she volunteered.

"No," came the reply. "It's OK... I'm just anxious to get home. But it's going quickly. Go ahead," she demurred, stepping back a pace.

"OK, if you're sure..." She turned back to Jared. "Where am I going?"

Jared waited a beat. "Ever hear of King Henry the Eighth?"

A head shake. "No... Should I have?"

"No reason to, for you. For us... there were six reasons." Swinging back briefly, Jared fished out the next book from the stack and handed it to the traveler. She looked at the cover. _The Six Wives of Henry VIII._ Eyebrows flaring, she blinked back at Jared.

"Fifteen-oh-nine, eighteen-year-old Henry the Eighth ascended the throne of England and married Catherine of Aragon from Spain," he began briefing her, while she sat in one of the tech's chairs. "Over the next ten years, she was pregnant five or six times – we're not sure how many – but only one child lived more than two months: a girl, the future Queen Mary. Some time after that, desperate for a male heir and having fallen in love with Anne Boleyn, Henry starts an long chain of events that changed the world, just to get his divorce. That's in this history, of course.

"In yours, one of the male infants of Henry and Catherine survived, and grew up to become Henry the Ninth. No King Edward, Queen Mary, or Elizabeth, no divorce and five other wives, and apparently no split from the Catholic Church – although I couldn't tell that through the Cannon. Is there a Church of England in your world?"

Rose shook her head. "Never heard of it." Uninterested, she immediately returned to the focus. "So, what, you're telling me I have to prevent the death of a baby prince or something? How the heck am I supposed to do that?" Her voice wasn't _quite_ sarcastic – but this sure didn't sound as exciting as the others had been.

"We-e-ell," Jared considered, "The most logical thing to do would be to smuggle back some modern vaccines and immunize the kid."

"And you just happen to have some in your pocket, right?"

Jared started to speak, then shut his mouth with a pop. "No," he admitted.

"I could get some," came a tentative voice, and all of them turned to stare at its owner: Joel, the tech. "My brother's a doctor here in town, a pediatrician. Give me... half an hour? Unless you want me to use one of those things to get back faster?" He waved a hopeful hand at the time jumpers.

"No, that's OK," the next traveler told him, jumping in. "Half an hour is fine." She turned back to Jared, crossing her arms with a mulish air, a firm glint in her eyes that brooked no refusal. "Because I'm not going _anywhere_ until you teach me how to use that Jumper. _Really_ teach me, not just preprogram a button."

^..^

It actually took Joel almost an hour, but he finally returned with a compact reusable syringe, a pack of needles, and several small, individual cartridges of all-in-one newborn vaccine that covered the entire range of preventable diseases. The delay worked out fine, as Jared was able to give all four remaining Roses (including his own) enough instruction for them to use their jumpers reasonably reliably, albeit warily. "Time is much easier to manage than space – if you can, always just jump from time to time in the same location," he stressed, but showed them how to roughly calculate some distance, as well. "Luckily, these things come equipped with failsafes that prevent you from trying to materialize inside solid objects."

"Now you tell me," his Rose muttered.

Tudor Rose tucked Joel's small package away in a pocket, then turned to Jared. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Of course, Tudor English isn't quite the same as modern, but you should be able to get by. The main characters all speak other languages, as well. Speak any French?"

"Un petit peu," came the immediate reply.

"Spanish?"

"Un poco," again, matter-of-fact.

"Latin?"

"There you've got me," Tudor Rose smiled. "Actually, I only know a few phrases in a few languages – enough to wrestle with a waiter or a shop clerk. Don't worry, though – I'll get by." She left it at that, confident in her own abilities. "What else?"

Jared wasn't so convinced, but then... look at what his own Rose had accomplished. He shook his shoulders and went on to the main problem.

"I'm not completely sure which infant it was that survived. The first boy was the one who lived the longest in our world, almost two months, and was christened Henry, so it's reasonable to assume it was him. That's when I'm sending you to."

She nodded. "Still can't believe I'm doing this..."

Jared gazed at her in silent appraisal for several seconds, catching her attention. "What?" she asked.

"I'm just not certain about this, either. Are you sure you don't want some help? We could wait for Jack to get back."

"Where _is_ Jack?" Alpha Rose put in. "He should have been back by now."

Jared shrugged. "Probably a slight bit of time differential between the parallels – like we found before between Alpha and Beta. He'll be back, don't worry." He turned back to Tudor Rose, but she forestalled his repetition with a perplexed query.

"Why would I need help?"

"Because you're not just dealing with the baby, you're dealing with Henry and Catherine, and all the rest of the court. And Henry's no pushover. Look..." Jared blew out a breath. "Henry was a womanizer who had many mistresses, aside from all those later wives. Are you sure you can handle this?"

Tudor Rose stared at him, eyes bugging out, then startled them all by bursting out in broad, helpless laughter. Mystified, Jared and his Rose glanced at each other, then back at her, as she struggled to get herself under control.

Still catching her breath between giggles, she raised a placating hand. "Not a problem," was all she said.

Jared still wasn't sure. "Rose," he began, but she cut him off.

"Oh, no, please. I'm sorry – no offense," she said quickly to her alpha double, "but actually that's my middle name. I never use it."

"Oh," said Jared, unexpectedly nonplussed. "What should we call you, then?"

The traveler picked up "her" book again, laughing at the pictures on the cover of the lecherous old king and his six hapless queens.

"Well, under the circumstances," was her mysterious, smiling reply, "I guess you'd better call me Belle."

* * *

 **Dance Four: Tudor Pavanne**

 **Tangled Threads**

A scant two (subjective) months later, Belle was sitting on a low stool near Queen Catherine's chair, holding the royal thread basket on her lap and attempting to untangle some of the huge knotted mess within it. Listening idly to the chatter of the other ladies with only half her attention, the other half was bemused at the decidedly odd turn her life had taken – odder by far than any of the distinctly odd turns so far.

In retrospect, it had been absurdly easy to infiltrate the royal court. She'd flashed back to Windsor Castle to Jared's selected time, in the fall of 1510, and hid in the garden just long enough to overhear that the court was indeed in residence there, and catch a glimpse of several finely dressed ladies in the distance. Then, making sure that time and place was bookmarked in the Jumper's memory, she flashed back out to the future London and found a costume shop. The money she had in her pocket (her last client's generous payment - was it really only that morning?) was enough, and passed the bored clerk's glance, so when she returned, she was outfitted in a more seemly fashion than her previous "grungies" – which likely would have gotten her thrown in jail, rather than a place at the dinner table. Even though her new clothes were undoubtedly still several decades off – and likely incorrect even then – they got her noticed in a _good_ way instead.

Then she pulled off what she privately called her "Princess Caraboo Maneuver", wandering about the castle garden with a bored, haughty look until she was "discovered" by a group of noblemen whom she "deigned" to greet as equals – in perfect Pig Latin. Utterly nonplussed as to what to do with this mysterious noblewoman who spoke such an incomprehensible language, they finally decided to take her to the Queen, finding her surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting in the sitting parlor of her royal apartments.

Face-to-face with Catherine of Aragon, Belle abruptly felt the full tide of where and when she was flood over her, nearly knocking her over. She managed a creditable deep curtsey, but when she tried to rise again, her knees collapsed instead, and she found herself plopped on the ground, babbling. She maintained just enough presence of mind to keep babbling in Pig Latin (blessing the years she and her best mate, Shereen, had spent irritating their parents and teachers with the invented language), then abruptly shut up, holding the back of one shaking hand to her mouth while two tears (where had _they_ come from? She was no Blubbering Betty!) escaped down her cheeks.

It was the tears that did it. Catherine shooed the noblemen out the door, as well as most of her ladies, then gently raised Belle off the floor herself and settled her into a chair at Catherine's own side in the parlor. Belle stuck mostly to Pig Latin in the interview that followed, gradually letting some Spanish and French words slip in, pretending not to understand the vast majority of what Catherine said – although, surprisingly, she found she did understand most of it and could guess the rest, even in the Queen's heavily accented Tudor English.

The important thing, though, was the immediate, instinctual liking the two women felt for each other; something that startled Belle down to her toes when she realized it. She wasn't used to having women friends, especially in her line of work. But here she was, smiling warmly at a woman born five hundred years before, living in an utterly foreign time and place – and Catherine was smiling back. Suddenly Catherine's face folded in a grimace, and she held a hand to her swelling belly – and Belle remembered why she was there at all: the baby growing in the obviously-pregnant woman. She caught the Queen's eye and, knowing even as she did so that she was probably committing an unbelievably rude faux-pas, she reached out a tentative hand, asking with her eyes if she could touch the baby bump. Catherine, surprised, hesitated and then nodded tentatively, taking Belle's hand and laying it on the right spot, just in time to catch the next kick.

Belle caught her breath. _Hello, Prince_ , she thought, then, … _I'm here._

She drew her hand back, and raised her eyes to meet Catherine's again. They simply looked at each other, each wondering who the other was, and what they would come to mean to each other, wanting to understand. Then one of the Queen's women interrupted, reminding Catherine of the time, and Belle saw the decision crystallize in the other woman's eyes. Struggling to her feet, Catherine told her women to find some proper clothes for their mysterious visitor, who would be staying with them – at least long enough to find out where she actually belonged. So it was that Belle became an unofficial Lady-In-Waiting to the Queen of England, in some mysterious halfway point between servant and noblewoman.

She soon found herself swept up into the daily routine of meals, audiences, daily worship services conducted by the Queen's own confessor, Fray Diego (whose piercing eyes Belle instinctively stayed as far away from as possible, fearing both the man's obvious intelligence and whispered lechery – although the Queen would never listen to the second charge), and the various other activities and amusements that kept boredom at bay at a sixteenth-century royal court. She "let" herself slowly "learn" English, but claimed to have lost all her memories of her life before arriving there, save some "vague impressions" of a royal life she gleaned from scenes in old movies. Of course, official inquiries were made, but no trace of this mysterious woman were ever found. She continued to be a curiosity, but Catherine's instant friendship protected her from the full brunt of suspicion.

Belle often shook her head in amazement at herself, for how well and quickly she'd adapted to this life. She never forgot the reason for her being there, slowly growing in the Queen's belly, and never became so comfortable that she didn't long to return home to her own life at the earliest opportunity, but for a long-term holiday, it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

Of course, there were down sides – a whole lot of them. The food, for one: although far from a vegetarian, the unending series of meat dishes gracing every meal with hardly a vegetable in sight made her long for a huge green salad with vinaigrette dressing. Or even just a baked potato – that import from the Americas not having been discovered yet. She struggled daily not to think about it, but she would absolutely _kill_ for a basket of hot, freshly-fried chips.

And then there was the issue of sanitation. She would never, ever get used to the dirty rushes lining the floors in every hallway and room. The stench which arose in the outer halls after a few weeks of use as urinals by everyone was unbearable. No wonder the court continuously moved from palace to palace!

And baths. Apparently what she had been told before was true: at that time and place, nobody took them. Ever. Well, she was NOT going to bend that far. She startled the Queen and everyone else into a tizzy of excitement and concern with her health the first day when she insisted upon having one – although she had to make it a sponge bath, since nobody understood what she was asking for. Stripping down – another Tudor no-no, apparently – she managed to at least wipe everything off with a wet rag before appeasing her mortified roommates by donning clean underclothes. The second morning, they were all set to deny her even this, before the Queen appeared and, being told the situation, simply told her ladies to let her be. After that, they ostentatiously left the room each morning and left her alone – which suited her fine.

(Belle was a bit curious about the lack of body odor from everyone, which she had assumed would permeate everything horribly, but then realized that with the constant changes of clothing – and that clothing, at least, being washed semi-regularly – and daily donning of clean linen underwear, as well as the lack of any physical exertion, the upper classes stayed reasonably clean. Although hopefully she'd be gone before the following summer's heat took its toll in perspiration.)

Still, even with these annoyances, all in all, it was a pretty nice gig. She had thought her lack of needlework skills might hamper her – that being a major pastime of the Queen and her ladies – but then they discovered her knack for untangling things, and let her sit and bring order to their thread baskets in lieu of stitching; while the chatter and gossip swirled around her, sometimes including her, sometimes not – but not maliciously, she realized, astonished.

But of course, that was only half of the situation, half of the court. The other half, swirling around the feminine side, sometimes including them, often just affecting them from a distance, was the man's world, the real drivers of the country's business. And in firm command of that world, of course, was the King, Henry, who swept into the Queen's chambers on the third day after Belle's arrival and sucked all the oxygen out of the air, leaving her as giddy as the silly schoolgirls she always despised.

Henry the Eighth, she realized, was a force of nature.

Just nineteen years old that fall, the newly-crowned king of England was the absolute ruler of his world – and he knew it. Considered incredibly handsome in his own time, Belle decided he would have held his own in her era, too, even without the undeniable charisma permeating the very air around his royal person. When Catherine presented her, labeling her as the Queen's mysterious royal visitor and under her protection, Belle fell into a more practiced curtsey, not losing her balance this time, then arose at his gesture and gazed boldly straight into his eyes, letting a tiny knowing smile play around the corners of her mouth after several seconds. A flicker of a raised eyebrow told her the message had been received.

Even so, it was several weeks later before quiet arrangements could be made to get her from Catherine's side for a few hours with a plausible excuse. She was taken to a small chamber down some back stairs and told to wait, then left alone with a young page who kept his eyes studiously averted. Belle looked around the room and smiled wryly: it showed signs of being regularly used as a private retreat. There was a table strewn with forgotten books and papers, a single large chair and footstool on the rug between the table and a small fireplace, and a double bed pushed against the far wall, heaped with furs and cushions. And then she spied what was lurking in the far corner and the smile became a broad grin. The first actual bathtub she'd seen.

That solved _that_ problem. She'd been wondering how she might be able to get Henry into the practice of bathing first that she'd long been accustomed to insisting upon with her clients. She chivvied the page into calling for hot water. Judging from the alacrity with which that command was obeyed, apparently it wasn't as unusual as she'd been led to believe.

Regardless, when the door was suddenly flung open about a quarter of an hour later, revealing an excited monarch (the page, who'd been lurking outside, taking a lightning-fast peek under Henry's arm before retreating instantly to a safer distance), he found his prey sitting coquettishly in the tub, refusing to come out, beckoning him to join her, instead. The tub was barely big enough for two, but it got the job done, and she definitely made it worth his while, to his everlasting surprise. She knew she was going to have to go very slowly, not moving outside of what might be considered "normal" in this excruciatingly straight-laced society until she was certain of him at each step of the way – but that only meant a guarantee that she'd hold his interest for a very long time, indeed.

Yes, this was definitely going to be a very long, sweet holiday.

* * *

 **Of Friends and Babies**

Pregnancy affects everyone, even Queens. Even Queens legendary for their graciousness. As the months wore slowly on, Catherine became snappish and withdrawn, sometimes spending hours in her own private rooms with but one or two companions – and more and more, that companion was Belle. The two women would sit together quietly for hours, hardly saying a word, while Catherine worked on her latest sewing. Belle began work on a sampler of her own, just to have something to do, and was surprised to find her stitches slowly improving. At this rate, she might even end up with a decent souvenir to hang up on her wall when she returned.

Not all of Catherine's time was spent closeted, however. She would also spend long hours in interviews with either Henry or her confessor, Fray Diego. Belle could tell these became more and more distressing as time went on; the Queen would return trembling and pale, lips pressed together in frustration.

After one such session, Catherine sat in the weak winter sunlight streaming from her window, hands trembling as she tried to concentrate on her stitchery. Belle caught her stabbing the needle so ferociously through the thick fabric that she inevitably jabbed her own finger, crying out softly and putting the wounded digit to her mouth, mortified at the tears that came to her eyes.

"What is it?" Belle asked her softly. "What is wrong, Your Highness?"

Catherine's eyes were huge and troubled. She started to speak, but then bit it back, shaking her head, her meaning clear.

Belle considered, then put a gentle hand on her friend's arm. Speaking in halting, poor Spanish, she told her, "Si yo no comprendo, no puedo repetir." _If I do not understand, I cannot repeat._ Dredging the words up from memory, she added, "No mujeres, no hombres... y no Dios." _No women, no men, and no God._

Understanding dawned in Catherine's eyes, and with it the fearful, desperate desire to have one person to trust with her innermost thoughts. Slowly, haltingly, she began whispering in Spanish, then suddenly the dam burst and torrents of words flooded quietly out. Belle didn't understand more than one word in ten, but names stood out: Fray Diego, mi papa, Henry. Belle remembered from the bits of early chapters of Jared's book (which she had smuggled back under his nose and kept hidden away with her med kit and the time jumper in the bottom of the trunk Catherine had given her for her burgeoning wardrobe) that Catherine was bound to represent her father, the King of Spain, and his interests to her husband. Apparently she was under a great deal of pressure from Fray Diego to do a better job of it, but Henry wasn't listening. Belle kept any hint of comprehension off her face, however, so Catherine felt safe to continue pouring out her troubles to a sympathetic but mute ear.

The incident brought the women even closer together, which – although it made slipping away to meet Henry increasingly difficult – also brought Belle into even more foreign territory than she was already in. Never before had she had a close female friend and confidante. It was going to be hard to leave when her time was up.

^..^

The good part was that Belle had arrived near the end of the year, in time for a real Tudor Christmas. While it was quite different from what she (and multitudes of film makers) had imagined, nevertheless, the seemingly-endless series of balls, pageants, feasts, and yes, even the hours-long religious services were like a fairy tale come true. Belle occasionally felt herself grinning and mentally calling herself Cinderella.

At last the long-awaited day arrived, when the Queen woke her household on New Years Day itself with word that her birthing pains had at last started. One look at her sunken eyes and white, pinched face revealed that they had actually started many hours before, but that Catherine, true to form, had been suffering in silence until well along and it was close enough to morning to wake everyone, still groggy from the festivities of the night before, which of course had lasted well past midnight.

The next few hours passed in a blur for Belle. With zero experience, never even having witnessed a birth before (she retreated again into mysterious Pig Latin chanting to deflect suspicion on that score, reminding everyone how alien she actually was), she knew she couldn't help at all with the practical side. Catherine, however, wanted her around, and ignoring the sidelong jealous glances of her other women, insisted that Belle stay at her bedside, cool damp cloth for her forehead at the ready, holding the Queen's hands through the long delivery.

At last the baby was born: a boy, to everyone's ecstatic welcome. The King was duly informed, and arrived after a decent interval (to allow the Queen to compose herself) to view his heir and congratulate and thank his Queen. He caught Belle's eyes momentarily on his way out and quirked an eyebrow. Later, after Catherine had fallen asleep and the baby ensconced in the nursery, Belle slipped out to their trysting chamber, and they celebrated the birth in their own fashion.

Belle waited for a few days until she felt she could do the job without getting caught. First she established a habit of holding the Prince whenever she could, sitting near Catherine with him in her arms. She practiced handling the empty syringe when alone in her small chamber just off Catherine's own, until she could bring it out of a pocket, mime surreptitiously giving the shot in her lap, and return the needle without jabbing herself. When she actually did it, five days after the boy's birth, it went like clockwork, the needle slipping through his swaddling clothes and then back into her pocket without anyone seeing a thing. She'd waited until he was getting a bit fussy anyway, wanting to be fed, so his sudden outraged squall surprised no one, and after handing him to his wet nurse, she slipped out to her chamber and put away the syringe without attracting a bit of attention.

A tiny smile of triumph crossed her lips, and she leaned against the back of her door for a moment, giddy with relief. She'd done it!

^..^

That night, just before going to bed, she opened her trunk again and pulled out the time jumper. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes a moment, then pressed the recall button.

The backlight was still white. She was still in Alpha.

 _Well, I suppose it might take a while for the change to really happen._

And that's when it hit her. How long WOULD she have to stay here? How long WOULD it take for the time stream to really be changed? Babies and children could die for any reason, at any time, not just from pertussis. How old would the Prince have to become before history was sufficiently different for a timestream split? Her giddy triumph faltered and slipped, slapped in the face with uncertain reality.

 _Oh, God. Am I going to have to wait until Henry dies and the boy succeeds him? Or until he was supposed to have divorced Catherine and left the church?_

Frantic now, she pulled out the paperback she had smuggled back and opened it up to the timeline in front, then sat staring openmouthed at the page, unbelieving. Henry the Eighth married Anne Boleyn in 1533. It was now January, 1511.

 _Am I going to have to live here for another **twenty-two years**? **DAMN** you, Jared! What have you done to me? What have you gotten me into?_

 _When will I be able to go home?_

* * *

 **Twists**

Belle drifted through the next few days in a fog of shock, see-sawing between quiet happiness at her accomplishment, self-derision for that accomplishment's simplicity, quiet growing affection for Catherine and even Henry, gnawing trepidation at the prospect of the unknown amount of time looming ahead – perhaps a lifetime! – and seething fury at the man she held responsible for her current predicament, Jared Wolfe. She spared a thought occasionally for the man she supposed was ultimately responsible, the crime boss Corvantes who had kidnapped her away from her life, but he wasn't the one who had sent her back in time with this impossible task, now, was he? No, that was the man with Alpha Rose, her twin.

The only time she felt calm was when she held the young Prince, as she continued to do whenever she could. He had been christened Henry after his father, of course, a day after his surreptitious vaccination. Playing peekaboo when he was awake, simply gazing at him while he slept, infused her with the peace that so eluded her any other time, her tumultuous mind able to rest for these few precious moments alone. Catherine continued to favor her young companion, smiling indulgently at her obvious affection for the heir to the throne.

King Henry was so enthralled at fatherhood, so in love with his son, and so enchanted with Catherine for having presented him with an heir that he momentarily forgot Belle. She wasn't summoned to their trysting spot again after the day of his birth, but with the entire palace in such a glorious uproar, reflecting her own turmoil, she didn't mind not having to deal with an amorous King on top of everything else. Although she sat directly at Catherine's side during the magnificent tournament he threw – and won – he didn't even glance at her for gazing triumphantly at his wife.

Then came the morning that the wetnurse screamed the palace down, when she discovered the infant Prince lying dead in his crib, already cold.

And Belle's world turned black.

^..^

With grief as heavy and pervasive as the previous celebrations had been glorious, the entire court went into deep mourning for Young Prince Hal, as he had been called. He was interred at Westminster in a day-long ceremony as magnificent as his parents' double coronation had been three years before. Deep silence, reflecting the cold winter rains that fell uninterrupted for days, rang throughout the palace halls.

Catherine spent hours and days in tearful prayer, ignoring all who tried to comfort her, while Henry stormed and raged about, terrorizing all with his mercurial temper. The servants and courtiers alike breathed a sigh of relief when he abruptly gathered his men-at-arms and rode out to a battle, conjured out of thin air to distract himself. When he returned some two months later, he was calm and gay again, but the gaiety seemed forced and brittle at times. He undertook to woo Catherine again, luring her away from her prie-dieu and her rosary with a return to feasts, sports, and dancing, and slowly the Queen and the court came to life again.

Including Belle. She'd gone through her own version of shock and mourning, albeit less for the baby Prince (whom her arms still unexpectedly missed), and more for herself and her predicament. She'd spent many long hours near Catherine, ostensibly at prayer like the Queen, but lost in thought. Many times she made up her mind to simply return to her time in Alpha and try to make a new life, but then she would remember that literally all the billions of souls in her own timeline were depending on her to recreate them – if she even made it. She had relied on the residual protection of the dimension cannon for protection during her brief flash forward for her outfit, but surely she would fade out like Saxon Rose had done if she failed and tried to return to the future, wouldn't she? Even if she did survive, she didn't think she could live with herself knowing she'd given up, and effectively murdered them before they were born. So day by day, she reluctantly made up her mind to continue with the Tudor court. Surely it was doable, even if it took more time than she had originally thought. The book said Catherine would have many pregnancies – it would simply have to have been another baby that survived. She'd make sure of it, next time.

^..^

Late that spring, Catherine returned one day from a quiet stroll in the gardens at Henry's side and called Belle to her, dismissing the other women. "I have wonderful news for you, my dear," she said proudly, taking Belle's hands and pulling her down to sit on the settee beside her. She turned serious for a moment, peering into Belle's eyes with compassion. "I know how much you loved my son – as much as I did. It shows you are ready for a family of your own! But –" the Queen's eyes suddenly clouded over with another memory, and her voice turned delicate. "Have you remembered nothing of your own family, where you came from?"

Belle, speechless at the (to her) ominous turn this conversation was taking, mutely shook her head no, maintaining her vitally-necessary cover as a mysterious amnesiac.

Catherine smiled kindly. "Well, since no one has come forward to claim you, we must consider you one of our own. And take steps to see that you are taken care of. And so we have! The King has found you a husband!"

* * *

 **And Turns**

Belle was utterly flabbergasted. She sat gaping at Catherine for a moment, then blinked hard and shook her head. "Don't I have any say in the matter?" she managed to ask.

The Queen's gracious smile faltered. "Well, certainly you can refuse. But it is such a good match, dearest Bella." (She never had managed to lose that last trace of Spanish accent, and always added an "a" to Belle's name.) "And I would see you married and settled, and protected. I fear for your safety and reputation, and it is my duty to ensure you are taken care of."

"So you and Henry – forgive me, His Majesty – just _arrange_ my whole life for me?"

Catherine was confused. "That is how things are done, dearest."

"But I thought..." Belle swallowed hard against the unexpected hurt that suddenly tightened her chest. "I thought you wanted me to stay with you. I thought... we were friends."

It was Catherine's turn to blink, then she laughed, rushing to reassure her companion. "Of course I do! You won't be leaving me! You will still be with me daily, and even sleep here when you wish – when your husband allows. As Lady Montague's husband does her," she elaborated, referring to another of her ladies-in-waiting. Belle had forgotten the woman in question was (officially, anyway) married. "He cannot hope to take up all of your time. I shall demand that you continue to attend me."

Belle was still reeling, unable to process this latest development and what it meant for her own plans. "But I can still refuse?"

"Yes, if you truly feel that way. But I hope you will consider it carefully."

"Am I even allowed to know his name?"

Catherine's laughter pealed out. "Of course, dearest, por cierto! You will meet him this afternoon, and you shall measure each other's worth." Then her smile turned mischievous. "But my husband, the King, wishes to introduce you himself. You are to go to his chambers after the noon meal." And she refused to say anything more about it.

^..^

Belle had never been to the King's private chambers before; all the times they had met in the conduct of their affair had been in some little back room. The long walk across the castle brought out her simmering resentment against Henry. He hadn't even looked at her since the day of the Prince's birth, passing by her on his nearly nightly visits to the Queen's bedchamber without a glance, and now he thought to cast her aside, throwing her to some flunky as a bone? Well, we'll just see about _that_! She was quite used to even long-term clients suddenly disappearing when their tastes changed, or their circumstances no longer permitted availing themselves of her services, but she certainly wasn't going to let herself be _disposed_ of.

Halfway through a formal garden, an awful thought occurred to Belle, and she checked involuntarily, staring at a blooming rose bush while she considered the implications. Had she allowed herself to develop feelings for the King? Had she let him get under her skin, and stopped seeing him as a (powerful, but still professional) client?

No, she decided, after a lightning-fast assay of her gut. She was as fond of him as some of her other former clients (the one she'd been with the night before her kidnapping sprang to mind, bringing a quick, tiny smile of affection), but more than that... no. She was OK on that score.

Loins thus properly girded, she continued on, preparing to negotiate a proper end to their professional relationship (even if he had no idea that's what it was). He would be made to understand that he had no responsibilities toward her future or her position, that she was just fine where she was, thank you.

She slipped through the usual crowd always hanging about the King's public chamber without attracting attention, and gave her name to the guard at his inner door. He checked inside briefly, then bowed her through the door, closing it behind her. Looking about quickly for the man she was being offered to, she was surprised to find herself alone with Henry, instead; the sumptuous quarters devoid of anyone else, even guards and servants.

"Belle!" Henry cried warmly – but softly. "Ma chérie!" Striding on his long legs across the chamber, he swept her up in his arms and began kissing her passionately, to her utter confusion. This was not the reception she'd been expecting.

She managed to pull away from him, her stiffness communicating her distress. "I thought..."

Smiling down at her, he finished her sentence. "You thought I was no longer interested, that I was giving you away? No, my dear. Never."

"Then this man... isn't even real?"

"Oh, yes, he is real. But he also understands the situation. He knows he is only giving you his name, so that we may continue, you and I. Come, Belle." She suddenly realized his hands had been busy with her clothing. "Come, we have an hour. And I have missed you." He smothered any further protests with passionate kisses, simultaneously maneuvering her adroitly to his large bed and continuing to remove her clothes. Realizing she was basically trapped, she shifted mental gears with a tremendous effort, putting all other considerations on hold. A tiny back portion of her mind was wrenched, wounded – and confused. Was she a professional here, or was this personal after all?

^..^

A little less than an hour later, still panting slightly and glimmering with sweat, Henry bounded to his feet and began pulling on his clothes. Belle grimaced behind his back; he never could seem to lounge around in bed enjoying the afterglow, but was always racing on to the next activity. He glanced over his shoulder at her, seeming shocked and irritated that she was still lying there.

"Come on, get up! Get dressed!"

She was only halfway clothed when he started for the door, mind already on wherever he was headed. "He's waiting for you in Lady Chapel," were his last, off-hand words, and he was gone.

She stared at the re-closed door, jaw dropped, for a good half a minute. Then she slowly closed her mouth, and shook her head. "You really are a royal jerk, aren't you, _Your Majesty,_ " she muttered sarcastically.

She was mightily tempted to simply head back to the Queen's chambers, but knew she couldn't face Catherine without even exchanging a word with her supposed intended – let alone learning his identity! So, sighing, she cleaned herself up, finished dressing, then slipped out the door, went through the now-empty outer chamber, and headed towards the small chapel dedicated to Saint Mary tucked in the corner of one of the formal gardens.

Late afternoon sunlight was streaming through the side windows, slanting across the dusty summer air and blinding her momentarily when she entered the tiny church, and she didn't see him at first. Then she spotted the dark head bowed over his hands as he knelt at the railing, perhaps in prayer. She didn't recognize the back – but at least he wasn't fat. Or bald. Grimacing at herself for this lightning tentative approval of someone she had no intention of accepting, she walked slowly down the center aisle and stopped a few feet behind him.

"My lord?" she called softly when he didn't seem to hear her approach.

The man started, raised his head, hurriedly crossed himself, and pushed off the railing to his feet before swiveling around. His eyes swept past Belle towards the doorway, then darted around in anticipation, obviously looking for someone else.

"He didn't come. He sent me instead." She couldn't think of anything else to say.

His dark eyes snapped back to hers as understanding dawned in them, then his glance slid sideways again to the shadows opposite the windows, a rueful, disappointed look twisting his handsome features. And he was handsome, Belle suddenly registered, pegging his face a moment later as one she'd seen many times in the outskirts of the young, masculine crowd of highborn rowdies orbiting the King. She had the impression that he was quieter than most of them, more reserved, but he seemed observant and intelligent.

"Typical," was his clipped, wry – and slightly bitter – comment, and she couldn't help but agree. His eyes closed for a moment, and he shook his head as if forcing his thoughts into a different channel, then took a deep breath and opened them again, stepping forward to greet Belle. Stopping a pace short, he gave her a gentlemanly bow and a small but pleasant "public" smile.

"Madame," he began. "I don't believe we've ever been properly introduced – although I have seen you betimes in the Queen's company." She nodded, indicating she'd seen him, as well, and he continued. "I am John Wolfram, Viscount Pendleton, at your service. I have a good-sized estate in Essex, which I inherited from my uncle, along with his title. I... I'm an orphan, madame, quite bereft of family, so there would be no one to... object." He began to falter a bit, his lack of a prepared speech catching up to his natural good manners.

"Why are you going along with this?" was Belle's gentle, but bewildered query. He seemed like a pleasant, intelligent young man, but there was something missing from the picture. Something – several somethings, to tell the truth – just weren't adding up.

Another soft, wry smile. "I have my reasons. His Majesty wishes it..." His eyebrows quirked, with a 'what you gonna do?' air. "But I assure you, Madame, I am sincere in my offer of protection and safety... even from me. I will not be making any... importune demands upon you."

Belle was getting more confused, not less. "Not your type?" she asked, trying for a casual air to cover the unexpected slight to her self-esteem.

His face twisted, quizzical. "Not...? Oh," as her meaning dawned. "That's a rather cru – unusual way of putting it," he remarked, off-hand. But he didn't deny it, so she dug a little deeper.

"So who _is_ your type, then – OH!" A dozen tiny, almost hidden clues suddenly fell into place, and she nodded at the realization, her turn to be rueful. "Henry." It wasn't a question.

He froze for a very long moment, shock making his eyes round as saucers. A short, sharp gasp, and he spluttered, "M-madame!" That was all he could sensibly say.

Belle threw up a hand. "Stop. Just _stop_. My lord..." A tiny beat for emphasis. " _I don't care_. It doesn't matter to me." She licked her lips, giving her head a tiny shake while digging furiously for the right words that would help without giving too much away. "Where I come from, it's ... perfectly normal." That might have been stretching it a little, but who'd know? "Two men – or two women, for that matter... nobody cares. It's fine. It's accepted." Disbelief still colored his face, so she went personal. "I'm not shocked, or disgusted. I don't think any less of you, my lord. But neither will I ever tell anyone else. I do understand how it is here," she finished quietly, trying for matter-of-fact reassurance.

He found his voice at last, still shaken. "It is ' _accepted_ '... where you come from?" She nodded. Suddenly he whirled away, taking a couple of restless steps towards one of the high side windows and staring unseeing out to the garden beyond. "And pray tell me, madame, where this golden land of yours is, which is so accepting of everyone?"

"Somewhere very far away..." she whispered through the magnitude of that reality.

"Undoubtedly so... since I have never heard of such a place." A pause, then he whipped back around to pierce her with a question. "But I was under the impression that you had no memory of your former life?"

Caught. She struggled a moment, making it look real. "I don't... really. Just... bits and pieces, sometimes."

Doubt showed in his face, but then he turned back to his perusal of the window, apparently accepting her word. A moment's silence. "And if you _did_ ever remember... would you go back there? If you could?" She could barely hear his murmur, yet still the wistfulness was evident.

"Yes," she whispered again.

After a moment, she couldn't help her curiosity, and gently began, "Is Henry...?"

It took him a moment, then he stiffened, and the word exploded out of him: "NO!"

"Then... does he know...?"

Quicker this time, albeit not so forcefully: "No!"

"Then why is he making this – arrangement?"

He snorted softly, turning to give her a sour look. "Why else? It is convenient for him, and I'm obviously in need of a wife, having none, and as his loyal man will do his bidding." At her look of disbelief, he turned even more sarcastic. "Henry, think of someone else? I thought you knew him."

Stung, she shot back without thinking, "I thought you loved him."

He immediately deflected the accusation, obviously well practiced at it. "As everyone loves the King. But I'm not blind to his faults – yet dwelling on them risks treason," he added sharply, signaling that avenue was best closed. The heat had somehow left his voice, leaving only weariness and faintly echoing pain.

Silence stretched out between them, and yet... it was somehow not uncomfortable. They had turned a corner without even noticing.

After several moments, he drew in a deep breath, let it out in almost a sigh, then stepped forward again to face her squarely. Looking down, he carefully reached for her hand, holding her fingers gently with his own. Then he caught her eyes again and searched them deeply, his own troubled thoughts crowding behind his dark irises. She looked up hesitantly – he was a good half a head taller than she was – but each of them saw some indefinable something that spoke of reassurance.

"Madame..." he began again. "I would not have thought it possible, but incredibly, I think we understand each other. We both understand the situation, at least, and have no illusions about it which would lead to confusion. And I think... I think we could even be friends."

Her mouth quirked, and she slid a look of exaggerated disbelief across her features. "A man and a woman, friends? With each other? Surely not!"

Eyes glinting with humor, he matched her expression. "Shocking!"

Then, without warning, he was serious. "Will you accept my offer? I promise you, it is sincere. and not merely by order of the King. Will you accept my hand, and my protection?"

Belle was utterly confused, not knowing what to think. She stuttered a bit, then saw his hurt reaction, felt him start to withdraw his hand, and she said quickly, "My lord... it's just... this has happened so suddenly, I haven't had time to think!"

Instantly his face cleared. "Of course! I'm sorry. Please, take all the time you need." He tipped his head back a moment, thinking, then deliberately put on a more formal, courtly manner. "Madame, may I call on you tomorrow? After the noon meal? – We could walk in the garden," he added as the idea occurred to him.

She smiled up at him, teasing. "Together? In public?"

And again, he matched her air at once, eyebrows flaring. "If you dare!" he challenged.

Belle paused, then realized that she quite wanted to. "I would be honored, kind sir," she said, matching his formal manner of a moment before, and he smiled, recognizing it.

"Tomorrow, then." Lifting her hand slightly, he bowed over it, then turned and walked out of the chapel with the air of a reprieved prisoner.

Belle watched him go, then without warning was swamped by a flood of conflicting emotion, as the entire whiplash afternoon caught up with her. Staggering a step sideways, she caught the end of a pew with her hand and managed to maneuver into it before her knees collapsed.

"Oh my god," she whispered. Far from taking charge of her position and destiny, as she thought she was going to do on her way to Henry's apartments, she felt she was drowning instead, unable to fight the currents that kept pushing her this way and that.

And then she caught her breath, as the realization she'd had just after the poor doomed Prince's birth pierced the mental fog again. She had no idea how long she might be stuck here, waiting for history to be knocked sufficiently off its course. She couldn't use the Jumper to skip ahead, she had to live through it; Jared had been quite specific on that as he'd taught her how to use it.

She might be here for years.

Decades, even.

And she had damn well better start making some plans. She couldn't rely on keeping capricious Henry's attention or favor. Catherine was more steadfast, but even there, she needed to stay in her good graces in order to remain close enough to have the opportunity to vaccinate the next Prince. And Catherine was bound and determined to see her "married and settled".

She made herself stop and consider her suitor, this John Wolfram, Viscount Pendleton, assessing her gut just as she always did with a potential new client. She'd certainly learned how to be an excellent snap judge of character over the years; she'd had to, out of self-preservation against the creeps. And her gut was reacting favorably. He seemed pleasant, and steady, without any hint of creepitude. And without the entanglement of a "real" marriage, and given his hidden sexual preference, if and when she did manage to complete her mission and return to her own time, his heart would certainly not be broken. Nor hers.

And if she did refuse him, who knew what kind of idiot the King might try to set her up with next? John was likely the very best Tudor match she could make.

Realizing that she'd actually already made the decision, Belle heaved a huge, heavy sigh, closing her eyes against prickling tears. This damned "adventure" just seemed to keep getting worse and worse, as she sunk further and further into the tangled web. She whispered again the words that had seemed these past months to become a personal mantra.

"Damn you, Jared... Ah." A bitter smile of recognition crossed her lips – or was it only coincidence? "Wolfe. Wolfram."

She glanced sideways at the statue of Mary she'd been studiously ignoring since she entered, smiling her sweet, forgiving marble smile down upon the sinners at her feet. "Are you trying to tell me something?" she asked wryly.

Sighing again, she pulled herself to her feet and turned to the door, heading back to the Queen's apartments. A few yards away, however, she abruptly checked. He hadn't made it very far away himself, walking very slowly through the cloister at the garden's perimeter, head down, lost in deep, melancholy thought, hands clasped behind his back. Belle sped up again to come up behind him.

"My lord?"

As he had before, he started, then turned to see her behind him.

"John," he corrected her with a smile as she approached.

"John," she repeated, suddenly self-conscious. Then she held out her hand, and he took it, confused.

She took a last deep breath and smiled. "I accept."

* * *

 **A Change in Status**

Since no one could think of any reason to delay, John and Belle had their wedding a bare week later, a tiny, private affair with only three invited guests to witness, one of whom didn't even show up – Henry, of course. As Catherine, standing in for Belle's family, gave the King's excuses as graciously as only she could, John shot his bride a tiny grimace, and she sighed, squeezing his arm sympathetically. At least John played his part to perfection, as he always did whenever in public, and never gave anyone the least hint that the marriage wasn't as real and enthusiastically engaged in as any. Belle did her best to match his acting, and thought she did all right.

She got a jolt just before the ceremony, when the couple were shown to the tiny confessional one at a time; she'd completely forgotten about that requirement. John gallantly deferred, so she winked at him and entered the box, pulling the curtain closed and kneeling on the tiny penitent's bench.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she began without thinking, relying on her twenty-first century vernacular and vague memories of childhood mass attendance for camouflage. "It's been about... five hundred years till my last confession." She smothered a grin for her humor, and was about to launch in to a silly tale of tiny, imagined sins when she was interrupted.

"Señorita?" The priests voice was sharp and unforgiving. Glancing up in surprise, she saw two piercing black eyes lancing back through the woven screen, and gasped – inhaling the faint scent of incense and oranges that inevitably accompanied the Queen's own confessor, Fray Diego.

 _What is HE doing here?_ He was the last person, aside from the monarchs themselves, whom she wanted to cross or make suspicious. "Oh... forgive me, Father. My poor English..." She made a show of thinking of the correct words. "It is five... five days." Not needing to feign nervousness, she "confessed" to losing her temper twice, and having impure thoughts about her future husband, being sure to sprinkle a few "foreign" (Pig Latin again) words into the recital. The friar seemed to accept this as reasonable, only admonishing her to give her full attention to her wifely duties from that day forward. She thanked him, crossed herself rapidly, and scooted out of the box before he could take another breath.

John quirked his eyebrows at her, smirking, before wiping the amusement from his face and turning to present her to his friend and neighbor from the country, Sir Thomas Boleyn, who had arrived to witness in Henry's stead. An imperious throat-clearing from behind John interrupted further pleasantries, however, and Belle returned the smirk as he took his turn in the confessional.

Apparently John was much more practiced at passing that hurdle, as he was back out of the box before Belle could exchange more than a few words with Boleyn and the Queen. Then they took their places before the altar for the brief, perfunctory ceremony (performed by the King's own priest, oddly; Fray Diego seemed to disappear without a glance immediately after hearing their confessions). Later, Belle remembered not a word, bemusedly detached from the whole affair, as if she were watching someone else mouth the responses.

They joined the court afterward for the daily late afternoon supper, and Henry made a show of announcing their nuptials, to general surprise. None more so than Belle, however, when she was presented as "Viscountess Pendleton". _Me, a Viscountess? Wait, what?_ For some reason, it hadn't even occurred to her that she'd also acquire her new "husband's" title and status.

Said status, along with his place on Henry's Privy Council, had also earned John a tiny suite of rooms within the castle (whichever one the court was inhabiting at the time – the larger ones, anyway), so after the supper was over, with much toasting and teasing, a band of lords and ladies forcibly "escorted" the new couple to their chamber and attempted to publicly put them to bed per the usual custom, still dressed in their wedding outfits. Sharing sardonic looks with each other, they suffered the ribald jokes and "suggestions" with equanimity, then John shooed the crowd out the door with pleas to leave them in peace to "get on with it".

Belle took the opportunity while his back was turned to slip back out of bed and into the tiny dressing room next door, where the large trunk with her clothes – accumulated over the past few months in gifts from Catherine – had already been brought. She slipped into the standard night clothes of the day – ridiculously overdressed, she always thought, especially compared to her former habit of sleeping naked – and returned to the bedchamber. Both "newlyweds" were suddenly shy; neither met the other's eyes as John took his turn in the dressing room.

He took an inordinately long time changing, but at last the door opened again and he stepped out, dressed in his own bedclothes and dressing robe. Again not meeting her eyes, he began to mumble something about the couch in the other room – but Belle interrupted by clearing her throat, and when he glanced sideways at her, she gave him a come-hither look and crooked her finger, beckoning him to the other side of the bed.

He took a few faltering steps, then stopped, beginning, "Madame..." That was as far as he got, before Belle reached beside her and flipped down the coverings –

– revealing a backgammon board, already set up.

Face clearing instantly, he threw back his head and laughed, the first full, free laughter she'd ever heard from the normally-reserved man. Taking off his dressing gown and tossing it over the nearby chair, he slipped into the bed across the board from her and scooped up his dice.

Then he speared her with a challenging glare. "En garde, Madame!" and dramatically rolled the dice.

^..^

So, over the next few weeks John and Belle, Viscount and Viscountess Pendleton, slipped into an easy camaraderie. They usually spent the late morning to early evening attending their respective monarchs, but the first and last hours of the day were always theirs, and they spent the time indulging in court gossip, playing backgammon and cards, and discussing the world at large. John took a broader interest in that world than even the King, who was content to leave the actual governance of his kingdom to a group of ministers whilst he whiled away his days in his own leisure pursuits. John was not a member of that governing group, but he was friends with several, including Sir Thomas, and they kept him informed. The couple was occasionally invited to dine with Sir Thomas, as well his young family when they were in town from the country; Belle was bemused to catch glimpses of the then eleven-year-old Anne, destined (in Alpha Universe) to cause so much trouble down the road. She wondered idly what her fate would be in the altered timeline, but had no way of finding out.

Somewhere along that time, they also began the habit of Belle telling John stories, with wild plots and details that he, of course, considered completely false and unbelievable, including people riding around in noisy carriages, without being pulled by horses or anything else; buildings many stories high that towered to the sky; instantaneous communications over vast distances, even across the ocean to the continents which had only been discovered twenty years before. "What an imagination you have, Belle!" he would laugh, and she would laugh right along with him.

Henry, of course, had not forgotten Belle, just as he had semi-promised. They made quiet arrangements to meet every week or so in that little back room. It was actually even easier for Belle to slip away to those trysts than before, letting Catherine and John each believe she was with the other. She was careful never to hint of the ongoing relationship with Henry to John, not wanting to cause him the least amount of pain or jealousy. He probably had an idea, but was equally careful never to inquire.

Only one incident marred the perfect "honeymoon". A week or two after the wedding, Belle returned to their quarters a bit earlier than John, and went into the dressing room to change for the evening meal – and froze.

Something was wrong. Her eyes darted around, searching for whatever it was that had brought her up short, but she couldn't find anything out of place, not a single clue to explain her sudden unease. Finally deciding it was just her imagination, she took a deep breath – and froze again, her eyes widening in fear and shock. Suffusing the stuffy air were the faint but unmistakable twin scents of incense and oranges.

She dove for her trunk, which had never been completely unpacked, the detritus of months of discarded clothes, wraps, lace cuffs and handkerchiefs still left forgotten. She stopped and studied the contents for a long moment, but they didn't appear to have been disturbed, so she carefully dug down into them. At the very bottom were the clothes she had worn on her arrival, purchased in the costume shop in the future, which she had stopped wearing almost immediately, "carelessly" rolled up and "abandoned". She pulled the roll out and carefully opened it up, revealing the hidden contents: the med kit containing the syringe, needles, and several remaining doses of the newborn vaccine, the precious time jumper, and the book she'd smuggled back under Jared's nose.

Belle sat on the floor for many long minutes with those damning items on her lap, thinking furiously. Had Fray Diego found them? She didn't think so – surely he would have taken them if he had? But the trunk was no longer safe. She had to find another spot for the jumper and med kit. As for the book... she should never have brought it back. It was far too dangerous to leave lying around. John's voice replayed in her head, warning obliquely of treason.

She couldn't think of a better hiding place for her contraband, so she carefully rolled them back up in the old outfit and put it back in the trunk, arranging the rest of the odds and ends over it again, and pulling out one of her hairs to lay across the top of the pile. She'd know if anyone disturbed it in the future. _Wish I'd thought of that before._

Taking a small, ripped and useless silk-and-lace French hood, she wrapped the book up inside it – thank goodness it was a thick but standard-sized paperback! – and got to her feet, closing up the trunk and pushing it back under her clothes rack. Stepping back with her contraband into the main room, she stopped to consider. The cold, empty fireplace mocked her; too bad it was still high summer, or she could have burned it right there. As it was, though, lighting a fire in this intense heat would only have attracted attention.

But there were always fires going in the kitchen. Slipping out the door, she made her way via the back stairs she'd come to know down to the lower levels, and across to the busy kitchens, ignoring the curious stares of the few servants she passed; they bowed her by without a word, having learned the value of discretion long ago. She found a fire blazing merrily on the hearth of a momentarily empty kitchen, and rapidly tossed the bundle into the center. Heart in her throat, she watched it catch alight, and started slowly to breathe again.

Footsteps were approaching. Whipping around, she spied a small bowl of fruit on the table and picked it up, turning back towards the door. Smiling distantly and waving the bowl at the returning servants as if that's what she'd come down for, she made her escape.

^..^

At last the long, hot summer faded into a cool, crisp, glorious autumn, and the kingdom was bringing in huge, bounteous harvests. The celebration was marred by news of another round of plague, hitting first London and then spreading slowly across southern England. But then another announcement was made that pushed the all the recent troubles from the nation's collective heart.

The Queen was pregnant.

And so was Belle.

* * *

 **A Winter's Journey**

"John? I... I have something to tell you." Belle's soft, hesitant voice, so at odds with her usual demeanor, alerted him instantly that something was wrong, and he put down the book he had borrowed from Sir Thomas. They were sitting side by side on the sofa in their quarters, the open window catching the cool September breeze freshening the evening air.

"What is it, Belle?"

She'd opened her mouth to reply when the name struck her hard, and suddenly nothing was more important that hearing her real, personal name from her husband's lips rather than her selected professional one. "Hannah," she said quietly.

He blinked. "Who?"

That brought an embarrassed smile to her face. "No.. I mean... I remembered that that's what my family used to call me. Hannah. And... I'd like it if you would call me that, too. Please."

"You mean your name isn't Belle?"

"No, it is – both of them are. It's just... Hannah feels more personal."

A slow smile stole across his handsome face, lighting it from within. "Then I shall call you Hannah, too. But was that what was troubling you?"

"No," she replied with a nervous little laugh. "It just... occurred to me just then. No, I... I have to tell you something else." Taking a deep fortifying breath, she looked away from him towards the fireplace and said in a small voice, "I'm pregnant."

She didn't see the smile dribble away, but she felt it in the way he slowly stiffened, then abruptly rose and strode to the window, staring out into the darkening sky. Finally, from a long way away, he asked simply, "Henry?"

"Yes," she whispered. "No one else," she added, hoping it would reassure him.

John nodded, not turning. Then, "Have you told him yet?"

"No. I wanted _you_ to hear it first."

Another achingly long pause. "Well... as far as the world is concerned, of course, the child will be mine."

She bit her lip to hold back sudden unexpected tears. This wasn't what she wanted. The silence attracted his attention and he turned, catching sight of her strained face. He crossed the room again in two long quick strides and knelt before her, taking her hands. "Belle – Hannah," he corrected himself. "I'm sorry. I said that wrong. As far as _I'm_ concerned, too. The child will be mine. Ours." His face twisted wryly. "The only way I'll ever get one, likely." He'd never touched her sexually in all their months together – she wasn't sure if it were lack of interest or deference to Henry's wishes, although probably the former, she knew.

Still, she had come to love him, if only as friends – _best_ friends. "I never wanted to hurt you," she said earnestly.

Letting out a quick, pained sigh, John shook his head. "I am undeserving of you, Madame. Not worthy of your consideration."

Her turn to shake her head, much more forcefully. "No... don't say that... I'm the one who doesn't deserve..."

And all the months of lies and playacting broke on her head. She tore her hands from his, rose and raced from the room, knowing she was fleeing. _What in the world has gotten into me?_

^..^

It was hormones, of course, she told herself over and over.

Her scene with Henry a few days later, when she gave him the news, was in many crucial ways the opposite. Henry was ecstatic, not even stopping to verify paternity (blithely assuming it was his, of course), and chortling over having made two women pregnant at once. He caught her look and for once understood, hastening to assure her that he would never announce it publicly. Then, realizing, he speared her in return: "You aren't going to ask me to officially acknowledge the child, are you?"

When she mutely shook her head, he smiled grandly, promising to take care of her and the baby regardless, and never mentioned John once.

When he took her to bed, he was more gentle and affectionate than ever, and she tried hard to forgive him his faults. Then he said they'd have to meet more often to get as much of "this" in as possible before "you both are too big", and it struck her that she and Catherine were both going to be out of Henry's bed for several months.

 _Who is going to take our place?_ It never even crossed her mind that he'd go without. The question was whether he was going to welcome her back after the baby was born.

And whether she wanted him to.

^..^

The months wore on, the court moving from castle to palace every few weeks as was their practice. Christmas found them at Windsor again, and all the pageantry and feasting were, if possible, even more magnificent than the year before. Henry seemed determined to rid himself of all his inherited wealth before he turned thirty.

Catherine and Belle both heaved sighs of relief when it was all over, even though they then faced several dreary winter months of increasingly uncomfortable pregnancy. An interesting change had begun to slowly steal over John, however: he became more solicitous of his wife, sometimes even forsaking Henry's side to join her at Catherine's. Thus he was also there to witness as the Queen began speaking of her growing wish to retire from court for her "confinement", and find some quiet place outside of the city and all its bustle and noise – and danger of disease. No one knew what had killed the young baby Prince, of course, but the mystery just threw everything under suspicion. Belle had to keep biting her lips when "evil night airs" were mentioned.

Came the day Catherine again mentioned leaving London, perhaps to travel west, when John spoke up. "Why not north, Your Majesty? You and my lady wife could both retire to our own estate. It's nowhere near as grand as your usual castles, but large enough to hold a small company quite safe and snug. And it's only a long day's ride from town, when the time comes for news." When both women looked at him in surprise and dawning excitement, he smiled. "It would be my honor to host and protect you, as well as Belle."

It took a bit of cajoling, but finally even Henry agreed – after riding out with John to inspect the estate himself. The King himself would not be joining them for the winter – no one expected him to be able to stay in one place for that long anyway – but he stationed a contingent of guards in the nearby town, already swelling with servants, tradesmen, and minor nobles attached to the Queen's retinue or transplanted there to see to her comfort. John let slip to Belle that he'd also quite pointedly asked Henry to open his royal purse, so that the long royal visit would be more of a financial boon to "his" townspeople than a burden – not to mention helping defray the expenses John's own estate would have to bear. (All three of them knew it was also in furtherance of Henry's promise to Belle and her child, but none of them acknowledged it by word or look.)

At any rate, everything was finally settled by the end of January, and a royal caravan made the trip north on the first day of February. Belle and Catherine huddled under heaps of furs in Catherine's own coach, while the men went in the King's ahead of them. Henry was only going to stay for a few days before moving on with the bulk of his retinue, making a winter progress around East Anglia – not so far from the Queen's side that he would be unable to ride there within a few days if necessary.

"This is the first time you will see your estate, isn't it, Bella?" Catherine asked her.

"Yes, it is." Belle was rather excited – just as with the issue of her title, she hadn't given much consideration to what else her marriage to John had brought her.

"They will be anxious to meet their new mistress," the Queen mused, gazing out the window. "You must take firm control when you arrive, and let them know you are running things."

Belle's stomach suddenly lurched, a reaction that had nothing to do with the coach or her pregnancy. Catherine turned and caught sight of her blanched face, her own expression turning puzzled.

"I have no idea how to run a household," Belle confessed, feeling panicky now. "Let alone a whole estate."

But Catherine just laughed. "I do. And I will teach you." And that was that.

^..^

Because the coachmen went so slowly out of deference to the women's advanced pregnancies, sparing them – on the King's orders – as much as humanly possible the constant jolting of the rough, barely-able-to-call-them roads that even the exaggerated springs of royal coaches couldn't tame, the caravan broke their journey for the night halfway there, taking over all of both inns in a small town and terrorizing the cooks. Thus it was a bright, crisp, clear late afternoon when Belle first saw the house and estate that were now "hers". Gazing in delight at the stately home nestled unpretentiously in a fold in the surrounding hills, the whitewashed walls glowing in the winter sun, the long drive curving in a graceful half-circle before the broad front steps, she couldn't help smiling contentedly. For the first time since she'd arrived in the sixteenth century, unaccountably, she felt as if she'd come home at last.

"Welcome home," came her husband's voice in her ear, unknowingly echoing her own thoughts.

"Welcome to Chateau Mauvais Loup."

* * *

 **John**

Belle turned to her husband, her eyes sparkling from this, her first glimpse of her new home. He smiled back at her, continuing, "I hope you will be very happy here, Hannah," marking the occasion with a rare use of her private "family" name.

But she noticed the shadow behind his eyes, and her smile faltered. "You weren't?"

He hesitated. "My uncle was... harsh." A pause. "He adored my mother – his only sibling. I don't think he ever recovered from her dying while giving birth to me, or stopped resenting me for it." He sighed, his mouth twisting in a wry grimace. "The ghosts in the chapel were more cheerful and welcoming."

"What about your father?" She had never asked about his past before; it always seemed a closed subject.

"He died when I was four, in the battle at Bosworth. He had already left me here to go fight for King Richard – another sticking point for Uncle John, who backed the Tudors." He frowned and shrugged, the echo in his eyes of the lifelong pain of rejection belying the casualness of the gesture.

"Well," she replied after a moment, taking his arm and holding it affectionately. "Then you and I, together, shall do our very best to overlay all the bad memories in this house with happy ones. Perhaps we can even change this _mauvais loup_ into _un loup joyeuse._ "

He cocked an eyebrow, and a small but genuine smile slowly stole over his face. "If anyone can do it, Madame, it is you."

Of course, Henry interrupted their moment with loud protestations of how glad he was to be done traveling, and telling Catherine he was sure she would be comfortable in this "small, but well-appointed" house (which description caused John to roll his eyes at Belle before turning to add his assurances yet again). The bustle of arrival took over, then, as John escorted Belle and the royal couple up the stairs and across the threshold, and began giving the ladies a quick tour.

In the midst of inspecting the large banquet room, Belle felt John suddenly freeze beside her, and she glanced sideways at him to find him staring fixedly at something across the room. Quickly glancing the other way under her lashes, she found he'd locked eyes with a footman about his same age, both their faces carefully blank under their intense mutual stares.

 _Well. I guess not every memory was bad_. Her hand was still tucked into his elbow, and she gave it a sudden, very sharp squeeze, covering his startled jerk by bending past him to pick up a small statue on the table they happened to be standing next to. "Watch your eyes," she whispered, very softly. "They give you away."

A quick, tiny intake of breath was the response, and he instantly began describing the statue to her – but as he took it from her to replace it on the table, he caught and squeezed her hand in thanks.

^..^

Admittedly, the house _was_ tiny compared to the usual royal palaces. John had warned Belle that they would have to share one of the smaller bedrooms for the length of Henry's visit, as it was only proper and expected to give the King the largest, most comfortable suite – and Catherine the next largest. They would then take over the master suite when Henry left. That smaller bedroom turned out to be the one John had grown up in, although nothing personal of his seemed to remain – if, indeed, he had ever been allowed to add his own touch, which Belle suspected he had not. At least the bed was wide enough for two (well, two and a half, with her growing pregnancy) - barely.

Luckily they didn't spend much time there. Henry insisted on riding out to winter hunting every day, all day, dragging the hapless John along to act the proper host. "At least I'm a good rider," he told his wife wryly, "my uncle made sure of that, even though I dislike hunting." The proper court manners which required him to give all the good kills to the King also covered his own lack of "luck" at the hunt, and no one noticed.

Belle, meanwhile, spent her days with Catherine, as before, and the Queen made good her promise, giving the new Viscountess a quiet crash course in managing a large household as they sat together in her sitting room or one of the large parlors downstairs. John had inherited a good, experienced staff along with the estate, which included a butler, housekeeper, and estate manager all with many years behind them serving the prior Viscount, so at least Belle had the advantage of stepping into a smooth-running operation rather than a dysfunctional mess which needed fixing. Nevertheless, she quickly learned which areas of life at a country manor she now had control over, and which she didn't. Catherine, gracious as always, undertook her tutelage so quietly that the staff never guessed their new mistress's lack of training for the role, not even her new personal maid, Mary.

At last, ten days after their arrival, Henry announced his departure the following morning along with his retinue (largely housed in town till then), never noticing the sighs of relief from everyone – including Catherine. Even with the advance warning, however, it still took until almost noon for the royal entourage to actually quit Mauvais Loup, Henry riding his favorite horse down the long drive for all the world as if he were leading a formal military parade. Catherine smiled tiredly at Belle, and retired to her rooms, requesting that only a tray be sent up that evening. The housekeeper, informing Belle that Henry's own servants had kept all of the resident house staff entirely out of that hallway, promised her that they'd have the suite scrubbed and fit for "Your Ladyship" by bedtime.

When John was immediately swept up into a long-delayed inspection of the estate with his manager, Belle decided to take on the welcome work of moving all their clothes from their tiny room to their new quarters, with Mary's chattering assistance. (The girl's sweet, good-hearted temperament reminded Belle of the maid of the same name in The Secret Garden, one of her favorite childhood books, and she bade the housekeeper leave her in peace when the older woman scolded.)

All in all, it was a long, exhausting day after a long, exhausting fortnight, and Belle had never felt more grateful to change into her nightclothes and fall into bed. Oddly, John was still fully dressed, puttering around the room as if nervous, then abruptly going to stand by the window and stare out into the dark. She suddenly remembered that afternoon, when she'd caught him and the footman (whose name, she had discovered, was William) repeatedly glancing at each other and then quickly away, as if scalded.

Suddenly he drew a quick breath, and began, "Hannah – " but his voice was strangled to silence before he could go on.

"Go," was all she said, but kindly.

He whirled around to stare at her, half fearful and half hopeful, and she smiled. "Go! I haven't forgotten – and I saw you two earlier." She shook her head. "I don't want to see you unhappy – not when happiness might be in arm's reach."

Still he didn't move. Finally finding his voice, he said carefully, "I have always honored you as my wife."

"I know," she replied, then practically pushed him out. "Go on. He's probably waiting."

With that, he suddenly made up his mind, spun around and marched quickly out the door. Then she squeezed her eyes tightly closed, trying to erase the memory of the wild, reprieved look in his, sighed deeply, and lay down, her back towards the cold, empty side of the bed.

^..^

It was still cold and empty when she awoke the next morning; he hadn't returned. Impulsively, she awkwardly rolled over to that side and lay for a moment, messing it up so it looked slept-in – no rumors would be started amongst the servants this way. She pulled herself out of bed and bathed at the wash basin, then got dressed in the cold morning light. She was standing at the window, staring out, trying to decide whether to go downstairs without him when she heard the door open behind her. Plastering a small, welcoming smile on her face, she turned...

...and the smile dribbled away, all the happiness sucked out of the room by the palpable cloud over her husband's head. He stood for a moment by the closed door, head down, staring at the carpet, then made as if to go to the dressing room.

"John?" her voice was a whisper, afraid he would shatter at any louder pitch; still, it stopped him with a jerk. Suddenly unsteady legs carried her to his side. "What happened?"

He wouldn't look at her, raising his head to gaze across the room at nothing, but after a moment, simply shook his head. His voice was broken when he at last found it. "It... wasn't the same. It's been too long. We... we've both changed too much."

"I'm so sorry." Stupid, empty words, but they were all she could come up with.

He shook his head. "It wasn't you."

"Still. I'm sorry anyway." She put a hand gently on his arm, fleetingly grateful that he didn't flinch away. Not wanting to pour on salt, she nevertheless gently probed, "Henry?"

His eyes sank closed again, but then he gave himself a miniscule shake and forced them open again. "Only partly," he said.

Wanting so badly to comfort him, but not knowing how far she could go – he had never welcomed much physical touching – she took a tiny step closer and softly laid her head on his shoulder, not saying a word. After a moment, his arms actually slid around her torso and he turned into her, resting his cheek against the top of her head so she couldn't see his face. She put her arms around him in return and simply held him for a minute while his shoulders softly shook.

When he raised his head again, sniffling hard, she pulled back just a hair, bringing her hands around to rest lightly on his chest and looking at them, knowing he still didn't want eye contact. She licked her lips and began hesitantly, putting just a hint of authority in her voice. "Shall I... let him go?"

He immediately shook his head no. "There's no need. He's already gone – his choice. He didn't want to stay." He swallowed, hiding a wobble. "I gave him enough money to live on until the spring hiring fair. I wanted to give him more, but he refused."

She nodded. _Score one for William, then. I wouldn't have expected such a dignified exit._

She waited another few beats, then took a deep breath and made her voice a hair stronger, trying for a kind but pragmatic tone. "I tell you what. It looks like it's going to be a beautiful day – the sky is clear, and it feels like it might warm up. Why don't you," and she at last raised her eyes to his, "take me on a tour of the estate." His eyebrows flared in surprise at this unexpected request, and she snorted softly. "It's been almost a fortnight and I haven't once set foot outside the house. You can show me that haunted chapel you told me about." Pausing, her face softened, and she admitted the real plan. "We could spend the day together, just you and me. I don't think we've ever actually done that." She saw the question in his eyes and answered before he could speak. "Catherine can fend for herself for one day – I suspect she'll be glad of the chance for some solitude. Please? I'll ask the cook to make us a picnic," she added, trying to tempt him.

"I think it's still going to be too cold for a picnic," he replied, but not unkindly.

"We'll have it right here, then, in front of the fire. But I really do want to get out of these walls for a few hours, and just spend some time together with you."

She could see him struggling to put William and the long, black night behind him. Finally, he nodded. "All right. Just let me change my clothes first."

"Of course," she smiled back, incredibly relieved at his acquiescence.

As he turned towards the dressing room, though, he stopped, and surprised her by cupping her cheek with his palm, then quickly leaned over and kissed her other cheek.

"I want you to know," he began sincerely, "that I do know how very lucky I am to have you."

Her heart in her throat, she smiled tearily back at him. "Me, too. We're both lucky."

Nodding, he went then to change, and she turned back to the window, hugging herself, letting the realization wash over her. _I really am incredibly lucky, that Henry chose to pawn me off on such a sweet, thoughtful, caring, intelligent man._

 _It could have been so much worse._

* * *

 **Viscountess**

It all started with the forks.

The one aspect (OK, not the ONE aspect, but one of the main ones) of life in sixteenth-century England that Belle had just never gotten used to was eating with her fingers.

Spoons, they had – at least for soups.

Knives, they also had – everyone carried one constantly at their waist, in fact, for just such use. Even she had gotten accustomed to doing so.

But forks? Aside from a few large serving forks, none were found on any table. Everyone was expected to pick up large pieces of meat or what-have-you with their fingers and hack at it with the knife – or teeth, even – to get it into bite-sized pieces, and then transfer it to their mouth with those same fingers. And everything else not liquid enough for a spoon was likewise chased around the plate with greasy digits.

Thank goodness they DID have soap. Even though John (and others) thought Belle overdid it a bit with her passion for washing her hands before and even after every meal, they couldn't dissuade her, and she was able over time to at least get him to wash his own hands, too – most of the time – grumbling cheerfully the whole time and making a show of indulging his pregnant wife.

And then, the day he gave her that rambling tour of the estate and nearby village, and they wound up in the public inn for noon dinner, one of the places they visited was the local ironmonger's workshop. A cut above the usual blacksmith, the old man prided himself on his fine workmanship with small, fiddly bits. A gleam came into Belle's eyes, and she pulled him aside for a low-voiced consultation while John was talking with the apprentice at the forge. The ironmonger was surprised at her request, but then shrugged. A couple of shillings for satisfying the foolish whims of the local nobility was just part of life – and the Pendletons always had a reputation for fair dealing.

Two days later, the dining table at Mauvais Loup was graced by a new addition at every place setting, looking distinctly out of place beside the silver spoon – but Belle privately vowed to fix that as soon as she found a willing silversmith.

"What is _this_?" John asked, exasperated, picking up the fork by his plate and holding it up to Belle.

"It's a fork," she replied, exaggeratedly matter-of-fact. "You use it to eat with." She picked up her own knife and fork and began demonstrating her proficiency with the pair of implements.

"I know what it is," came his testy rejoinder. "What's it doing by my plate?"

"So you don't have to touch your food with your fingers. It's much cleaner and more pleasant this way."

John opened his mouth again to protest, but was interrupted by Catherine speaking from the far end of the table.

"Fray Diego claims that using forks offends God, by putting base metal between a person and their god-given sustenance. He says it is a form of arrogance." With both her hosts silently watching, she then calmly picked up the fork beside her plate and speared a small piece of food, brought it to her mouth, chewed and swallowed it before looking up at Belle. "I never did like grease on my fingers," she admitted, her eyes twinkling.

This was the first time Belle had ever witnessed the Queen acting in defiance of her autocratic confessor, even in such a tiny little way, even with him far away in London, but she knew better than to say anything about it. So she settled for returning the twinkle before turning her gaze back to John, eyebrows arched in challenge.

He sighed quietly, knowing he was beaten, and began to eat. With the fork.

^..^

Why stop with forks? What's the use of being mistress of the household if you can't arrange things to your satisfaction? (Besides, Catherine herself had _told_ Belle to take charge!)

A couple of days later, after Belle had exchanged some quiet words with the cook, John was again startled – and more than a little outraged – to spy a small pile of cooked beets on his plate. He opened his mouth to protest again, but this time Belle beat him to the punch.

"They're called vegetables, my Lord." But then she dropped the impish attitude and turned earnest. "John, it's _not healthy_ to eat nothing but meat and bread for every meal. You need to eat a little of everything, including fruit and vegetables. I've ordered the cook to begin including more." She was also fully aware, of course, of the necessity of including such things in her own diet, since prenatal vitamins were several centuries out of reach.)

John was furious. "This is _peasant_ food," was his flat reply.

Her temper suddenly flared to match. This was the first time he'd ever shown such an aristocratic attitude. "Yes, and they're all so sickly, aren't they?" she asked sarcastically.

"The King is the picture of health, and there is naught but meat on _his_ plate!"

"And in twenty years, he'll be so fat and riddled with gout that he can't even walk!" She'd never had time to read the entire book that she'd smuggled back beyond the first few chapters before burning it, but she'd glanced through it, and that picture of the future Henry had stuck in her head.

John stared, eyes goggling – and then suddenly threw his head back in laughter. "A fine argument, Madame, that requires twenty years for the proving!" he jeered good-naturedly.

She couldn't help but smile ruefully back. "And do you really want to wait twenty years, and perhaps be in a shape to match?"

He rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Catherine once again sailed in to back up her friend. "I remember the meals I had as a child in Spain," she said a bit wistfully to no one in particular. "We always had many fine fruits and vegetables along with our meat. I have missed them." As before, she speared a beet slice with her fork and began eating it, gazing at the elaborate salt cellar on the table with a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

John's eyes slowly traveled back to Belle's, his face a study in unwilling resignation. Sighing heavily once again, he picked up his fork and copied Catherine with a trepidatious, exploratory nibble of beet; looking for all the world, Belle thought, like a small boy forced to eat his peas on pain of losing his pudding. Smothering a smirk as best she could with her goblet of weak ale, she resolved to make it up to him somehow.

 _Now if only they'd brought back the potato from America already..._

^..^

That very afternoon, fresh from her latest triumph at the dinner table, Belle made the mistake of attempting to get from one side of the house to the other via the rear hallway. Immediately gagging and coughing from the miasma emanating from the unspeakably filthy rushes covering the floor, she staggered back out of the hall and leaned against the wall, hand to her mouth, trying not to lose her lunch.

"My lady! Are you all right?" In a piece of perfect timing, the housekeeper Burke was there at her side, concerned.

When she had caught her breath (and was sure her stomach wasn't going to rebel), Belle pushed off the wall, furious. "That's _it!_ " she seethed. "No more!" She pointed an imperious finger towards the offending hall. "Get those rushes picked up and disposed of, then scrub the floor till it _shines_. And _do NOT_ replace the rushes! I want them out – out of the whole house!"

A couple of other servants had poked their heads around corners, attracted by the sound of her voice – and then John appeared at the door, as well. She whirled and faced him, hands on her hips. "This house has a working garderobe, and from now on, _everyone_ will use _it_ , or a chamber pot – or go outside. NO ONE will relieve themselves in this hall or any other, on any floor. No rushes anywhere! I will NOT abide this stench in my own home, ever again!" The garderobe, a primitive privy stuck on the side of the house, was still awful compared to the plumbing of a later century, but better than these bloody rushes.

"Belle..." he began placatingly, but she cut him off in fury.

"Go smell that stench!"

He stepped to the door, took a whiff, and flinched back, coughing a little, but still trying to minimize things. "OK, it's a little ripe, but that's why we change the rushes."

"No, John, we are NOT going to change the rushes! They're gone! Use the garderobe, a pot, or go outside!" Thinking of it, she spun back to the housekeeper. "And the pots are to be emptied – in the garderobe or outside – at least twice a day!"

John took another breath to argue, but she whirled back on him, crossed her arms over her chest, and fixed him with a positively ferocious stare. She hadn't realized it, but come to think of it, _he_ was probably one of the worst offenders in the back hall.

Still, there was a limit, even for him. "And what are we to have on these cold stone floors, Madame, if not rushes? I think you'll soon lament their absence when your feet begin to freeze."

"Carpets," was her clipped reply. He started to react, but she cut him off with a quiet addendum: "Like Henry." The King had only just begun his newfangled style of putting Persian rugs rather than rushes on the floors of his private apartments (and hadn't had a chance to impose them on his flying visit to Mauvais Loup), but she'd seen them – and knew John had, as well, as they'd talked about it more than once.

His eyes flickered, and she knew the last thing he wanted was to be seen as a mere toadying copycat, but he was also smart, and knew a lost battle when he saw it. Plus, he had liked the carpets himself, remarking on their beauty and comfort. But, "Of which we have none fit for floors, and I cannot obtain any at a moment's notice." There were only a few thin tapestries hanging here and there in the house.

Belle closed her eyes a moment, beating down her anger. "All right," she replied, trying to come to compromise. "But can we get new, fresh rushes throughout the house, _today_ , and keep them fresh – keep changing them at least weekly, and I mean _all_ of them, right down to the floor – until we _can_ get carpets enough?"

He thought a moment, and then dipped his head, acquiescing. Then she stabbed her finger again at the offending back hall. "But THAT goes, and stays gone! I mean it, John – no more using the hall – or any floor – as a place to piss!"

He cocked an eyebrow at her use of the crude word, but he was used to her acting outrageously as a point. Sighing slightly, he nodded again. "Burke," he said quietly, turning to the housekeeper and nodding curtly. "See to it. Clean the hall - and spread the word, so everyone knows." Then he gave Belle an ironic little bow, adding "Excuse me, Madame," and ostentatiously walked towards the outside door himself.

As she turned the other way, Belle gave herself over to a tight, satisfied smile. _I may not be able to kick-start the entire scientific revolution all by myself, but at least my house will be clean and sweet-smelling!_

* * *

 **The Request**

The winter continued dragging its muddy feet through the countryside, limping on towards spring, and the residents of Mauvais Loup waited it out as best they could. They couldn't be sure, of course, with the primitive obstetrics knowledge of the day, but it seemed that both Belle and Catherine were due in mid-April, just before the Easter Holy Week (coming late that year). The two women made a private bet over which of them would deliver first, both admitting the universal maternal wish for it to just be over.

John did his best to keep them both diverted, with such games and amusements as were to be found in a small country estate, and passing along bits of news that he received in letters from various correspondents at court. The former Archbishop of Canterbury had unexpectedly passed away, and King Henry had been constrained to cut short his progress to return to the capital and deal with the vacancy. Several names had been put forth by various factions, including one heavily backed by John's friend Sir Thomas, who was busy pulling all the strings he could find. "He's playing a dangerous game," John quietly confided to Belle, "and making even more enemies. He needs to have care, that he doesn't overreach himself." Belle agreed with him, while privately glad that John was safely out of the political turmoil himself.

Meanwhile, the temporary residents of the nearby village had been augmented, yet again, with a contingent of officials awaiting the birth of the prince or princess. Among them were no less than three experienced midwives, who did their best to reassure both the Queen and the Viscountess of their abilities, claiming to "hardly ever" lose either newborn or mother. Belle fought a continuous, silent battle with her growing terror of giving birth in these primitive times, knowing she had zero choice in the matter. (Although she did sometimes toy with the idea of using the time jumper to get herself to a proper hospital when the time came, she knew she would never get the chance. And how could she ever explain where she'd been when she came back?) She wondered occasionally if she'd gained enough influence and respect with her own staff to insist on them boiling some water for washing the newborns, but hadn't quite had the courage yet to find out by suggesting it.

^..^

Belle entered the big, warm sitting room downstairs one morning to find the Queen settled into her favorite chair, but holding a letter in her lap in lieu of her usual stitchery. She was staring into the fire, a drawn and worried look on her pale face.

"Your Grace?" Belle tried not to add an unladylike grunt as she settled her ungainly bulk into the nearby settee. "Is something wrong?"

Catherine sighed, folded the letter and slipped it into her yarn box. She turned to look at her companion.

"Bella..." she began. "You are determined to nurse your child yourself, aren't you, rather than hire a wet-nurse?"

"Yes, I am," came the reply. She held up a hand to forestall the expected argument. "I know, it's not considered proper, but I just cannot hand my baby over to a stranger's care." The practice of the day among the nobility of farming infants out to wet-nurses and barely seeing them thereafter was so alien to Belle that she had no intention of following it, regardless of how others would view her oddity. She grinned at Catherine, impishly. "You could do the same..."

Catherine scoffed. "Henry would never allow it. I am surprised that John is doing so. A wife is expected to be buxom and bonair in bed – and how can she be so if she is constantly seeing to an infant's demands, exhausted from lack of sleep and with her breasts chewed and swollen?"

Belle simply smiled. She had no desire to rehash that argument yet again. "Why do you ask, Your Grace?"

Catherine peered at her sharply, as if gauging something, and then gestured at the folded letter. "I have just found out that the woman we hired to be my child's wet-nurse has died in childbirth. Now we must try to find another one that we can trust – more than that careless slattern who allowed my bonny prince to die." She pursed her lips, then pushed past the memory. "And there is so little time. I do not know if my Lord can find one before my niño is born." She shook her head, then turned back again. "Bella... If he cannot find one and get her here in time, and if your baby is born first, would you also nurse my child? Just until a wet-nurse is found? You are the only one I trust. And I remember well how much you loved my bonny prince. I told you then you were ready for a family of your own. And I was right, wasn't I?"

Belle's jaw had dropped, and she stared at the Queen in amazement, her mind whirling a mile a minute. The whole child-rearing issue in Tudor England just kept getting stranger and stranger. _Henry is going to find a wet-nurse? And you're so under his thumb that you can't hire one yourself from the local women – let alone nurse your own baby?_ And overriding those thoughts was the even greater one. _Me? Play wet-nurse to a princeling? Wait, what?_

Over the long preceding months of her advancing pregnancy, she had slowly come to accept the idea that she would never be going "home" again to her own time. She had a home, a husband – and now a family. How could she ever _think_ of leaving them behind? And for what? To become a call girl again? Living all by herself in a lonely flat, with a sister and parents she almost never saw, who had no idea how she really made her living? Her world's Paul Corvantes, whoever he was, would simply have to find his own way without her – besides, the idea of a call girl changing a boy's future so drastically was ludicrous at best. No, her life was here now. She was still going to do her best to ensure one of Catherine's baby boys grew up to become the King, but it was less and less these days out of any remaining sense of responsibility to the future (well, and wanting to stay alive herself – she didn't want to blink out of existence like the poor Saxon Rose had), but simply out of love and loyalty to the woman sitting across from her. She was damned if she'd sit by and watch her get pushed out of her place down the road by some wanna-be queen if she could help it. But no, even if the time jumper ever did change colors, indicating that time had split, she wasn't going to leave John and her baby.

Her baby... She'd already decided she was going to use one of the remaining shots to vaccinate him or her; royalty be damned. That was also one of the reasons she refused to bow to local custom and hire a wet-nurse. She was well aware (having suffered many lectures on it from her sister, who had given birth to two children and conscientiously breast-fed each of them for an entire year) how important breast milk was, both for nutrition and to pass along her own immunities...

 _Oh. My. God. Is that what this is all about?_ She'd managed to turn her gaze to the fireplace, so hopefully Catherine couldn't read her face. _I'm supposed to breastfeed the prince, too, to give him immunity? Are you fucking kidding me?_ Even in her own thoughts, she boggled, mentally speechless for a moment, before the old helpless fury came rushing back. _DAMN you, Jared!_

"Bella?" Catherine's concerned voice broke in on her thoughts.

She closed her eyes, took a few breaths, then turned back to her friend and managed a small smile. "All right."

* * *

 **The Moment**

As if the decision had somehow precipitated events, Belle went in to labor not two days later. She tried to put into practice the few things she remembered from modern pop culture references about breathing through the pain, and staying off her back until the later stages, but found she was fighting Catherine as well as the midwives, especially on the latter score, and finally didn't have the strength. Reversing their previous roles, the Queen stayed at Belle's bedside throughout, applying cool wet cloths to her forehead and holding her hands through the worst of the contractions.

Looking up at her friend between the pains that were now coming rapidly, Belle was startled to see Catherine's face twist momentarily, and realized that her labor had also started. She drew breath to protest that she should be in her own bed, but Catherine saw and forestalled her, squeezing her hands gently. "No, Bella, there is plenty of time. I will see your child arrive first."

And he obliged her, coming into the world a short time later and announcing his displeasure at it with a lusty wail. The midwives joyfully proclaimed his sex: male; and his health: good; then cleaned him up (with non-boiled water) and laid him in his tearful mother's arms. Catherine leaned over to kiss him her blessing.

"Tell John," Belle whispered to her, exhausted. "His son is here." Then she speared her with a fierce look. "And then get to your own bed, Your Grace."

Catherine smiled and obeyed both directives, and Belle sent the midwives scurrying after her – their primary charge, after all. Her own maid, Mary, helped her get cleaned up before finally allowing John to come in. His reaction was all Belle could have ever wanted; she could almost believe that the boy really was his, and was sure no one else would ever guess the truth. "We'll call him John, too. Johnny," she told him, to his beatific assent.

Catherine's labor was even shorter than Belle's, and the new Prince Henry was born before sunrise. The witnesses, a selection of ministers and Lords called in from their long wait in the village, did their duty, and were dispatched immediately to take the joyous news to the King.

Of course, the new wet-nurse had not yet arrived from London (if one had even been found already), so Belle more-or-less took over nursery duties, ably assisted by Mary and another girl from the village. One day of them running back and forth between her room and the nursery down the hall and Belle intervened, insisting that both cradles be moved into her own room so she could keep an eye on them – apologizing profusely to John, who merely smiled and moved his own things back to his old room temporarily. "I'll come back when things calm down," he told her with a smile. Mary and the new girl took turns sleeping on a pallet on the floor of the hall just outside her door, so as to be in earshot, yet give her privacy and quiet.

The two baby boys looked so much alike to Belle's eyes that she wondered no one else saw it – but if they did, none of them breathed a word around her. She tried to keep as much distance between them at all times as she could, so nobody else could do a direct, side-by-side comparison. Luckily, Catherine stayed completely in bed for several days and didn't visit the makeshift nursery, and Belle only sent the Prince in to see his mother when she called for him.

Henry had immediately sent word – along with profuse, flowery exclamations of love and admiration for his "Beloved Queene and Ladye Wyfe" – that he would send for Catherine and the new Prince in one week's time, to bring them to London for the christening. He had found a wet-nurse and would send her out then to take over feeding the Prince and carry him back personally.

With that deadline in mind, Belle made sure to inoculate both babies on their second day, discovering to her consternation that this used up the last of the vaccine. There would be no more chances unless she jumped forward to the future to try to get more. On impulse, she threw the now-useless med kit down the latrine and felt better for having gotten rid of the evidence. She wasn't even certain the vaccines were really accomplishing anything anyway – wouldn't the diseases have mutated in five hundred years? Whatever bugs those vaccines were inoculating against may bear little resemblance to the bugs in the wild in this time period.

The royal coach caravan, including the new wet-nurse, arrived late one evening, and it was decided that the return journey would commence very early the following morning. Catherine had a private interview with the woman, who had left her own baby at home (just ready for weaning, and shifted to yet another woman to accomplish the transition), and gave her provisional approval of the arrangement. The Prince had his first meal from her breast that same night and seemed to approve, but Catherine allowed him to stay one more night in Belle's room so she could suckle him one final time before their departure. It was going to be hard to see little Henry go. Belle and her family were not returning to London, but staying on at the estate. John, still the Queen's official host, would be escorting her back to the King's side, then returning on horseback the following day.

True to form, the Prince woke her up in the wee hours for his meal, and she cherished this one last time, laying him back down to sleep beside her on the wide bed afterwards – carefully face up as always so as not to risk crib death. She herself stayed awake after that, listening to the distant sounds of preparation drifting in through the window from the courtyard below: horses being led out and hitched up to the carriages, luggage tossed up and secured, men – including John, she could just make out – talking in low voices. Soon they would all be gone and peace would at last descend over Mauvais Loup.

Little Johnny woke up then and began fussing, wanting breakfast, and she smiled and brought him back to bed with her. She thought of nothing at all while she nursed him, just letting her mind rest, watching his hunger slowly turn to contentment. It wasn't until he was finished, and she was holding him against her shoulder to coax out the tiny air bubble that the utter silence and stillness from the nest of blankets beside her drew her attention.

Prince Henry was still. Too still. Even before she reached a hand to touch his small chest, then gave him a tiny shake, then a harder one, panic lapping at the edges of the bed – she knew. He was gone. The tiny body, already cooling, told its own tale – he must have silently slipped away soon after she laid him down.

She sat frozen, one hand on Henry, the other still holding Johnny to her shoulder. Horror tunneled her vision, blackening around the edges until all she could see was the silent form on the bed. The stars were roaring in her ears, blocking out all other sound. Her bones had turned to hollow lances of ice, the winds of space and time whistling through them like piccolos.

The only warm, living being in all the wide universe was her son, lying heavy on her shoulder, so heavy... so warm... so alive... She felt the tug of other lives upon him, stretching out and away, forming an infinite, invisible web off in the vast unseen distance. He became too heavy to hold, the weight of all that life, all that destiny, pushing him down onto the mattress before her.

Without a conscious decision, somehow knowing underneath that if she stopped to think, she wouldn't be able to do what she now had to, her hands moved of their own volition and began stripping off her son's clothes. She reached for the heavy robes laid out for the Prince to wear on his journey and wrapped Johnny up tightly in them. Then – trying desperately now to stave off thinking – she stripped the tiny corpse beside her of the royal blanket and rewrapped it in her son's less opulent one, then draped a sheet mostly over the body, partly hiding his face so he appeared to be fast asleep.

Johnny gurgled up at her, and she snatched him up again, wrapping the purloined blanket around him before holding him close, so close, breathing his sweet baby scent as if it were to be the last smell she ever knew in her lifetime – someone was coming, tapping softly on the door and then opening it: the new nurse.

"My Lady? It's time."

 _No, no... one more second. One more hour_. But time was up. She somehow forced herself to open her eyes and allow the nurse to take the precious, precious bundle from her arms. "He just ate," she managed to say in an almost-normal voice.

The woman smiled and turned away, carrying Johnny – no, the Prince – carrying Prince Henry out the door. He would ever be Prince Henry, every moment, every day, forever after.

Suddenly her husband was there beside her, surprising her by kissing her cheek in farewell, then leaning past her to kiss his son – and she came to with a start and staved him off, explaining the baby had just finally fallen asleep after a fretful night. He looked straight at her, then, asking what was wrong, and she dissembled, saying, "I'm just tired, John, exhausted from looking after two babies. I'll be fine. In fact," she added with a rush of panic, trying desperately to keep her voice normal, "tell Mary that I'm not even going to get up today, or tomorrow, but just stay in bed alone with the baby. She can bring trays up, but I just want to rest."

"Of course," he replied. "Get some sleep – what sleep you can." And, kissing her again on her forehead, he was gone.

It wasn't until the door clicked closed behind him that the world seemed to snap back into focus, the early morning sun now peeking through the windows, and the rushing in her ears dying instantly away as the door click reverberated through her nerves, and she nearly cried out from the sudden normalcy of light and sound. She threw back the covers and ran on unsteady legs to the window, just in time to see the nurse carefully climb into her carriage and then hold her arms out for the bundled-up baby to be passed up. The royal blanket disappeared, and Belle stared down at the carriage roof as if trying to see through it. Out of the corner of her eye, she registered Catherine climbing ponderously into another carriage, still far too soon after childbirth to travel, really, but when did another's comfort impinge on King Henry's decisions?

And then John came striding out the front door and down the stairs, pulling on his coat and gloves, swung himself into his saddle, and the caravan set out. Belle stood at the window, staring blindly out and down the drive, long after the last glimpse had vanished from sight, the utter stillness of the room behind her sucking all the joy from the world.

^..^

How she made it through those two days, Belle never knew. She stayed in bed, keeping the horrible truth hidden, keeping the world away. Only Mary was allowed through the door a few times a day with food on trays, or to whisk away dirty clothes and dishes. Belle pretended to be nursing the baby twice while Mary came in, then claimed he was asleep the other times, and she rearranged his position on the bed and even changed the baby blanket to masquerade continued life. Shuddering, she used the contents of her own chamber pot to fake used diaper cloths, and forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls of the sawdust food from each tray.

Finally, near the end of the second day, she gave up, retreating into silent stillness, as the sun went down and the blackness hovering in the corners of the room began to close in again. She sat in the chair by the window, watching down the lane, and after uncounted long, aching hours, finally saw a lone figure approaching on a tired horse. Closing her eyes tightly for a moment, she heaved a long, shuddering sigh. It was John, and he was alone, not surrounded by soldiers. The switch had not been discovered.

She didn't move as he rode up and dismounted, and disappeared through the door below her. As she expected, he came directly up, knocking lightly on the door and then entering, a broad smile already on his face – which faltered and faded away as her utter stillness registered. He froze a moment, then took another step forward, so he could see her pale and masklike face. Then his eyes were drawn inexorably to the cradle by her side, and the stillness of the form within told the story.

The laughter dying in his eyes tore Belle's heart out, but still she couldn't move. Even as he sank to his knees and put his head on her lap, sobbing, even as the tears came pouring down her own face at last, even as she reached to hold him, she knew.

She could never, ever tell him the truth.

Because if she did, she would force him to decide between her and Henry.

She couldn't do that to him. But more, she never, EVER wanted to find out what his choice would be.

* * *

 **Shock**

News of the baby's death spread as only country rumors can; by morning everyone within a day's ride knew of it. John sent for the village priest to conduct a funeral mass at the chapel midmorning, and a surprising number of mourners came, too; most of the estate's workers and servants, as well as seemingly half the village. They filled the tiny, pewless stone church tucked into the margin between lawn and forest to overflowing, and stood silently all around the outside, marking their respect and affection for the popular young Lord and his Lady.

Belle went through the motions mechanically, her mind in park, drained and dazed by lack of sleep and the overwhelming emotions of the past few days, lulled by incense and Latin chanting and sunlight streaming across the chapel, setting the dust motes ablaze and fleetingly reminding her of the day she had first met John. She gazed numbly at the tiny coffin, not knowing what to think or feel about its contents, too exhausted to try to figure it out.

She made it through the mass, and watched from an impossible distance as John stepped forward to pick up the coffin unassisted, several men from the congregation – unneeded as pallbearers – nevertheless following behind in support and tribute. The women surrounded Belle and supported her out the door to the tiny gravesite; loyal Mary weeping at her elbow. The men carefully lowered the box into the hole, and John, visibly shaking, slowly took the first spadeful of dirt and let it drift gently over the casket, before turning and trudging slowly back to stand before Belle, taking her hand again. She tore her eyes away from the thudding dirt to peer up at him, and they stared tragically at each other for a moment.

And that's when she finally fainted.

She came to just moments later, cradled in John's arms on the grass, women still exclaiming and gathering around. The priest was there over his shoulder, turning sharply and calling to someone to run for the doctor in the next village.

Belle protested, "No!", her voice too weak to carry, but she didn't even have to, as John bellowed the same word over her.

"NO! No doctor!" At the sudden, shocked silence, he clenched his teeth and glared at the priest. "That charlatan _killed_ my uncle, as sure as I'm standing here, with his constant bleeding of him. I will not have him do the same for my wife." Turning his back on all of them, he reached to gather her up and carry her into the house, then tossed over his shoulder, "Send for the midwife instead."

"Thank you," she whispered, and he briefly paused, giving her a tight almost-smile.

"I keep my promises, Madame." They had spoken months before of their mutual distrust of the "doctors" of the day, both surprised that the other agreed, and each had promised to keep the leeches far away from the other's bedside.

She was out again before he even reached the front steps, tumbling down into the black, into an endless, tortured nightmare of darkness and suffocating clothing and babies crying from far, far away, of noxious liquids being forced down her throat, of distorted faces leering and fading, of impossible tasks she didn't comprehend, of clocks ticking away the seconds and sands running through the hourglass and pouring down upon her head, drowning her in hot, scratchy sand, unstoppable, unretrievable, unbearable.

^..^

She woke up slowly, consciousness seeping gradually back, realizing dimly that she was in bed once again, under a heavy, comforting layer of blankets. The scent of cut flowers and herbs diffused softly through the air, covering a sour, sick smell underneath. Opening her eyes, she discovered what looked like late afternoon sun gently glowing through the windows – but she didn't recognize the room. Those weren't the walls, the furniture, she'd been living with these past weeks.

Then abruptly she placed them. She was in the "second-best" bedroom, lately used by Catherine. She didn't know why she'd been brought here, but she was fleetingly grateful not to have to contend with the memories crowding her own bedroom just yet, with the accusingly empty spaces where two cradles had so recently stood.

Turning her head further, she finally caught sight of him. John was sprawled cartoonishly in a large chair by the side of her bed, head lolling, obviously deep in exhausted, unexpected slumber, the book he'd been reading plopped open on the floor where it had fallen from senseless fingers. I've seen this movie a thousand times flashed ironically through Belle's mind, but she couldn't keep a tender smile from her face. Then the pitcher of water and crystal goblet on the bedside table caught the corner of her eye, and the realization of how parched she was drove all else from her mind.

She tried to draw herself up, reaching for the goblet, but even that small noise of shifting blankets and muffled grunts woke him up abruptly, and he shot upright.

"Hannah?" he breathed, half afraid to believe, and the rare use of her 'family' name caught her attention as much as his tone. He dropped to his knees and raised a trembling hand, brushing her hair out of her eyes and searching them deeply.

She smiled tiredly at his disheveled appearance. "Was I out all day?"

"All day?" he replied blankly. "Hannah, it's been two days since the funeral mass. They said you had childbed fever. But I wouldn't let them bleed you." The toll of that continued decision, contrary to all current medical practice, was obvious in his dark-circled eyes and permanently-creased forehead.

She reached a hand and smoothed the lines away with gentle fingers, his eyes sinking closed at the touch. "Thank you," she whispered again.

John helped her sit up, bunching the pillows behind her, and held the goblet for her to drink. Then, studiously looking at the goblet as he replaced it on the table, he asked, deceptively casual, "Who's Jared?"

"What?" she spluttered, staring at him, and finally he looked back at her.

"You kept saying his name." His mouth twitched. "If it weren't for the fact that you cursed him each time, I'd be jealous."

 _Shit_. "What else did I say?"

"A lot of nonsense. You kept fussing over the Prince. And... our baby." The hitch in his voice was obvious. "And... something that was 'still white'. You kept saying that over and over: 'It's still white. It's still white.'" He was still peering at her, curious, inviting her confidence.

She couldn't give it to him. Belle shook her head, sliding a bewildered look on her face. "I have no idea. I can't remember... I know I was having nightmares, but I can't remember any details."

He gazed at her a few moments longer, one eyebrow raised, and she did her best to keep her own expression innocent. Finally, he nodded, accepting that she wouldn't offer any explanations, and looked away. She managed not to sigh in relief. "Think you could eat something?" he asked.

^..^

By unspoken agreement, they remained in the second bedroom, John telling Mary to move all of both of their wardrobes in from their previous rooms. Belle stayed in bed for several more days before she was strong enough to get up, slowly recovering from both childbirth and the fever. They spoke of neither the past nor the future, content to simply be in the moment. Instead, they talked about the estate, and farming, and the plowing just commencing and the sheep lambing everywhere, and the state of the world, and the books downstairs in the library, and the weather, and where they might find good carpets for the house at a reasonable price, and recommenced their endless backgammon competition. They also left the subject of court alone; for one thing, all of John's correspondents seemed to have gone silent, sending no letters at all for the past few weeks. Neither of them minded the respite from the constant intrigues wrought even at this distance.

At last, though, several weeks after her illness, she came into the dining room one morning to find him frowning over a short, one-page letter. "John?"

The look he gave her was unreadable, but the very blankness of his expression spoke eloquently to her senses of his distress. "We are recalled to court, Madame," he replied formally, waving the letter at her, and she caught a glimpse of Henry's elaborate, unmistakable signature.

"Why?" she asked, then, surprised, "Both of us?"

John nodded. "Most explicitly both. He says he wants me back in his privy council." Looking away at the curtains, he went on, his tone flat and carefully neutral, "He does not say, but presumably he also wants you back in his bed." This, the first time he'd ever so baldly referred to her position as Henry's mistress, cut her to the bone, and her temper flared.

"Well," she replied icily, "Henry may find out that even he doesn't always get what he wants. I've done my bit for King and Country." _Far above and way beyond, in fact._

John jerked his head back around to stare at her, his expression sharply puzzled – at her attitude or her phrase, she wasn't sure, and she smothered a snort. _Apparently that expression hasn't been invented yet._ Crossing her arms, she just barely stopped herself from giving her head an Oprah-esque waggle.

"You would refuse him?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes," she nodded frankly, "I _will_." She stressed the change of wording, making it a promise.

"You may have little choice in the matter," he warned.

At that, she shook her head. "There are always other choices, John – not to mention other women." _Though none with my particular skill set,_ she smirked internally, then pushed the thought aside, greatly irritated at herself for even thinking it. "Do you really think his bed has been empty these past few months? As far as I'm concerned, whoever took my place can keep it." Her pique fled as abruptly as it had come, and her voice and look both softened as she added, "I don't want to be the King's Mistress, John. I want to be your wife."

He continued staring at her, but his own face slowly softened, and finally he admitted, his voice low, "I want that, too."

After another long beat, they shared a small, tender smile, and the sticky moment passed. Then John glanced at the letter again and grimaced. "Well, there's no gainsaying a royal command, at any rate. We shall have to brave the lion in his den." He sighed. "We'll set out first thing tomorrow morning. The court is currently lodging at the Tower."

^..^

Belle dragged out her old trunk from the back of the dressing room and threw open the lid – and froze, inhaling sharply at the sight of her old costume, still rolled up in the bottom of the box. She knew the time jumper was still wrapped up within it; for all it had apparently loomed so large in her nightmares, she hadn't consulted it once since they had arrived at the estate.

 _What's the point?_ she asked herself, shrugging, and started packing, piling her folded gowns on top of the dark blue bundle.

^..^

Very late the following evening, close to midnight, their carriage turned into the gates at the Tower of London, carrying its weary passengers, exhausted from the endless day of jolting and lurching. John frowned for a moment; the wide yard seemed strangely empty, containing only a contingent of soldiers, rather than the usual crush of human flotsam, animals, and luggage that inevitably accompanied the court.

The driver was halted in the middle of the yard, and a burly Sergeant unceremoniously pulled open the door. He peered around the interior as if checking the number of passengers, then nodded at John.

"Viscount Pendleton? Viscountess Pendleton?" he asked brusquely.

"Of course," John replied testily, irritated at the man's manner. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You are both under arrest. Please climb down and come with me."

"Under _arrest_?" They cried in unison. "On what charges?" John furiously added.

"The charge is treason," came the implacable reply.

* * *

 **Trial**

"John!" Belle sobbed as she fell into his arms, ignoring the guards. Those arms closed around her tightly, his voice as rough as his whiskers as he whispered her name in her ear, "Hannah."

The last three days had been sheer psychological torture. Back in the carriage, John had coldly demanded to see a warrant for their arrest, and the Sergeant had obliged, handing him the short document. It was valid, with Henry's signature and seal, but devoid of any details.

The Sergeant then ordered them out of the coach again, standing back at least to allow them to climb down of their own power rather than being dragged out, and they were surrounded by soldiers and marched into the ominous White Tower of London, then separated and locked into different chambers – on different floors, even.

Then, nothing.

No visitors, no information, no clothing, no food beyond the proverbial bread and water, for three long days. Belle didn't even know what was happening to John. At least nobody was questioning her – or physically torturing her, either. She appeared to have been forgotten. All her pleas for information from the guards who brought the food twice a day, or for word of her husband, or to take a message to him – all were in vain.

Regardless of the stories of comforts which had been – or would be – allowed certain high-profile Tower prisoners over the centuries, Belle's chamber, at least, was most definitely a jail cell. Only five paces across, all it contained was a hard, thin pallet on the stone floor, a thin, moth-eaten blanket, a rickety chair, and a bucket in the corner for her "convenience". "Well," she sighed ironically, "at least they left me a pot to piss in," before all humor fled and left her alone in her misery. After that, all she could do was pace, and think. And try not to cry. How had they found out? What were they going to do? To her? To John? To the baby?

The one concession she was granted, after much humble begging, was a grudging bucket of water to wash in and try to make herself presentable each morning. She was glad she had done so, when, just as she was finishing up on the fourth morning, the door opened again unexpectedly, her usual guard standing in the door and beckoning her out.

"Let's go, my Lady. It's time for your trial."

"And my husband?" she asked breathlessly, not taking a step, but he shrugged his ignorance.

She gave a tiny sob of fear and frustration, then steeled her trembling legs as best she could, holding her head high and pacing sedately out the door. He led her down the stairs to the entrance, two other guards falling into step behind her – and then she saw John waiting below, surrounded by other guards, and she ran to him.

He was as disheveled as she was – apparently his board had been as rough as hers. They hadn't even given him a razor to shave with, though his whiskers were damp as if just washed, and his hair obviously finger-combed, like hers, and they both wore the same now-filthy clothes they had arrived in. None of that mattered as she pressed her cheek to his.

"Are you all right?" he went on.

She started to give a pat reassuring answer, then stopped and leaned back to peer in his face. "Define 'all right'," she said sardonically.

His eyebrows flared, and then he nodded, matching her expression. "Good point."

The guards interrupted their reunion, then, the squad leader saying they had to go. The couple dropped their mutual hug, but then John formally offered his arm to Belle again, and she laid her hand atop his with a small curtsey, and they turned together to walk out the front door as if going to a ball rather than a trial for their lives. The guards hurriedly formed around them, and they marched across the yard to the Chapel of St Peter Ad Vincula in the corner of the great walls.

"Have you learned aught?" John asked in a voice too low to carry.

"No," she quavered.

"Neither have I." He sighed, then straightened once again. "But have no fear, I beg you, Madame. Whatever this base calumny someone has spread against us, we will soon root it out, and set some heads to knocking in the bargain."

She glanced sideways at his proud profile, knowing him too well to be fooled by his brave, overly-flowery, defiant speech; he was desperately worried. And afraid.

Which was nothing compared to her terror and heartbreak. She'd had no time to confess her deeds privately to him, and now never would. He'd find out how she'd betrayed him publicly, along with the rest of the court. All she could do was try her best not to let her sins spill over onto his innocent head. If it took confessing all, she would beg the court for the mercy to spare his life.

They entered the chapel, then, to find it had been transformed into a courtroom. The first several rows of chairs had been cleared away to create a large open space, a few of them removed to one side, where a handful of noblemen were silently sitting and watching them approach – apparently their jury. Opposite them was a long table with a single man behind it – judge or prosecutor, she wasn't sure which. Belle didn't recognize him – or any of the jury – but his robes marked him as the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Only a bare handful of spectators were scattered in the remaining rows behind them; their trial must not have been announced publicly.

But most important, inexorably drawing their attention, were King Henry and Queen Catherine themselves, seated on a pair of thrones set on a temporary platform raised just in front of the altar itself. Henry's face was carved from stone, his eyes staring at John alone with the iciest stare Belle had ever seen on another human. Catherine, her face pale, stared down at the floor by her feet and did not move; Belle couldn't see her eyes.

The accused were stopped in the center of the open space, in the crossfire of every pair of eyes, no chairs for their ease. The guards halted, their leader saluting the King, then with a crisp command they whirled a smart about-face and marched back out of the chapel, their job done. Somehow managing to look as if they had practiced it every night, John and Belle simultaneously sank into a ceremonious bow and curtsey before the monarchs, held the pose a beat, then rose again to hold their heads high, looking straight ahead at a point between the royal couple's knees. Belle kept her hold on John's arm as if it was her lifeline. Complete silence reigned for a long, long moment – and then Henry glanced briefly to his right and nodded at the Archbishop.

"John Wolfram, Viscount Pendleton," the man began, his voice a shade too sharp to be a drone, "you have been brought here to answer to the charge of treason. What is your response?"

John blinked, as if expecting more. "Response to _what_? Your Grace, My Lords, I have heard no specifics. What crimes, precisely, are we being charged with?" His tone was bewildered.

The Archbishop's voice sharpened – apparently he was the prosecutor here, Belle decided. "Do you deny that you have been conspiring with Thomas Boleyn to undermine His Most Gracious Majesty's authority and government?"

" _What_?" John spluttered, utterly flummoxed. "Of _course_ I deny it – on all our accounts! Sir Thomas would do nothing of the sort, nor would I help any such endeavor by any means! We are the most loyal of subjects to your Graces!" Belle noticed that he directed most of each of his speeches directly to Henry, who simply sat motionless and stared flatly back, with as much emotion as the stone gargoyles on the roof. _But why is he concentrating on John? Have they decided that it was his idea?_

"Have you not been in constant contact with Boleyn and his other conspirators?"

"I have _long_ been in correspondence with a number of men, in many circles – but there is no conspiracy for any purpose that I am aware of!"

"So you continue to deny your guilt, in planning the undermining of His Majesty with Boleyn?"

John was getting irritated (to put it mildly) at the continued innuendo. "Absolutely! If you have any evidence against Sir Thomas, why is HE not here? Why are you questioning ME? In fact, I demand – " A flash from Henry's eyes showed he had gone too far, and he stopped himself, swallowed, and continued in a more reasonable voice. "I humbly request that Sir Thomas be found and brought here to answer these charges, as well."

A murmur from the jury met that request, but Belle couldn't figure out the cause. The Archbishop allowed himself a tight, satisfied smile before replying laconically, "That would be difficult, as he is already dead."

 _"Dead?"_ gasped both John and Belle together.

"The traitor Boleyn was arrested some four weeks ago on these charges, confessed his guilt under torture, was convicted of treason, and was executed for his crimes." The Archbishop would have seemed much more saintlike had he been able to keep the note of satisfaction from his voice during that pronouncement.

"Executed..." John was shaken to the core.

"And his family?" Belle blurted out, and instantly regretted it, as everyone's attention shifted immediately to herself.

The Archbishop paused significantly. "And why would you have such concern for the traitor's family, My Lady?"

The cold band of fear around her chest tightened even further – here was quicksand, but she had no idea of its shape or form.

"Because they were a lovely family – we had dinner with them." She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice – not entirely successfully. "And quite innocent of whatever their husband and father was accused of."

"Quite..." His voice seemed to linger insinuatingly on the word. "His wife and daughters have been sent to a nunnery. The boy was adopted by a cousin." The information came flatly; obviously he had no further interest in them.

A sudden vision of the bright, vivacious little girls, Anne and Mary, locked away into a suffocating religious life came unbidden to Belle's mind, but she ruthlessly quashed it, trying desperately to concentrate on her own predicament. The entire scene was beginning to feel unreal, with the concentration on Sir Thomas – what had he to do with her and the Prince? She didn't dare begin to hope that she was undiscovered after all.

"I still don't understand." John had found his voice again. "What does any of that have to do with us? What exactly was he convicted of doing, or planning to do, and why do you believe we had anything to do with it? Because I knew the man, was friends with him? Everyone knows everyone in this society."

"But not to the same degree. You have admitted to being in correspondence with Boleyn. Indeed, we have several of your letters to him – letters in which you discuss a great many things, and even include warnings of danger. What danger was that, My Lord?" Nobody was fooled by the innocence of the question.

John swallowed, glancing at the stony King. His attention had been snared by the Archbishop, and he'd been speaking directly to him the past few exchanges. Now he deliberately turned to address his liege again. "I was worried, Your Grace, that his actions might begin to have the appearance – the _false_ appearance – that he no longer had Your Grace's best interests closest and dearest to his heart, as I know without a doubt that he always did. I was cautioning him to have a care that his actions spoke always truly of his intentions, and could not be misread by idle, suspicious minds." His voice was firm again, but Belle felt him trembling through her hand still laying formally on his arm. His private words to her of a few weeks before came unbidden to her mind: "He's playing a dangerous game, and making even more enemies. He needs to have care, that he doesn't overreach himself." Apparently, Sir Thomas had paid no attention to John's warnings, and had done himself in after all.

Still, the King was silent, still as moss. The Archbishop spoke again, boring in. "And you still deny that you were in league with Boleyn, deep in a plot to discredit our beloved King and overthrow our beloved Queen, supplanting her with another?"

Utter silence reigned in the chapel, as everyone held their breath, staring at John to see his reaction.

Which was to splutter, utterly flabbergasted. _"What?"_ He gave his head a shake as if to clear his ears. "That... is … _preposterous_!" He swung back again to stare at Henry, outraged. "Your Grace! Forgive me, but you cannot _possibly_ seriously entertain such a ridiculous charge, based on a wild supposition without a shred of evidence!"

"But we do have evidence, My Lord." Both Belle and John snapped their eyes back to the Archbishop at this silky pronouncement. "Very kindly provided to us... by your Lady Wife."

John's head whipped around, and he stared at Belle, shock and bewilderment etched deeply into his face. She shook her head at him, mutely, mirroring the same genuine emotions. What in the name of all the saints could he _possibly_ be talking about?

As they both turned back to their prosecutor, he nonchalantly raised a hand and beckoned to someone in the tiny audience behind them. A figure rose from his seat and brushed close by the couple, trailing the faint scent of incense and oranges, bowed deeply to their majesties, then turned to face Belle and John directly.

Fray Diego.

Catherine's confessor was holding a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, which he shifted to one hand, then slowly folded back the corners of cloth, his icy black eyes never leaving Belle's face. She didn't meet those eyes, staring frozen at his hands, somehow knowing an instant before it happened what would be revealed.

Carefully nestled within the pristine white cloth were a dozen or so scraps of paper, burned around the edges, the remainder darkened by heat and smoke. She could make out on each a few lines of tiny, perfectly uniform print – far smaller and more advanced than anything the printing presses of the day could manage. All that remained of the damning book she'd smuggled back from the future, which she'd tossed into the fire in the palace kitchen all those months before.

* * *

 **The Snare**

"You know what this is, don't you, My Lady?" Belle, expecting Fray Diego to be speaking, was startled to realize it was still the Archbishop, his smooth voice slipping into the suddenly thick air between her and those damn pages. She realized dimly that her very stillness had given her away, her breath dying in her lungs.

"Belle?" came John's whisper. She couldn't bear to look at him, even if she'd been able to tear her eyes away from the scraps of paper. "What is this?" he demanded from the court in a louder voice.

"You do not recognize them in their current state, My Lord?" Again the Archbishop spoke with mock innocence that fooled no one, rising to his feet at last and walking around his table to come stand a few feet away, studying their faces. Fray Diego might as well have turned to stone for all he moved not a hair's breadth. "They are the remains of the Devil's Contract you and Boleyn drew up, with the spells and charms to bring about your evil plan, cast into the fire by your wife, either to hide the evidence or as part of the ritual to complete it – "

That was as far as his increasingly-fevered recitation got. Belle couldn't stop herself from bursting out laughing at the sheer lunacy of the situation, fueled with relief that the switch had apparently not been discovered after all. She got herself under control in seconds, though – brutally aware that her outburst hadn't helped, and may have done the opposite. _Once you get into accusations of witchcraft, ANYTHING is taken as confirmation._ The thought instantly chilled her to the bone, and she started fighting back.

"It was a _story_ , My Lord, a fiction, a silly tale from some writer's fevered imagination of what might happen – insulting to Their Grace's honor and dignity, and badly written, at that. Yes, I burned it – I burned it to spare my Queen's embarrassment at such a lurid fiction, should it become known."

"And how did it come into your possession in the first place?"

"I found it," she began earnestly, spinning the tale of her life, relying on years of playacting with clients for verisimilitude. "In the garden of the castle where the court was staying, propped up against a tree near Her Grace's chambers. Apparently the author was too timid to present it directly, and thought that method would get it to her. I prevented it from reaching its target, to spare her the humiliation, as I said."

"A _fiction_ , Madame? I think it is you who are telling the fiction. Those papers clearly lay out the plan, concocted between you, your husband, and Boleyn, to depose the Queen on trumped-up charges and replace her with Boleyn's own daughter, Anne!" The words rang off the stone walls.

"An eleven-year-old girl," she replied sarcastically into the silence, wondering fleetingly precisely which lines from the book had escaped the flames.

"Just the right age for marriage, by the time the Queen had been – forgive me, Your Grace, disposed of." Suddenly realizing he was sharing the spotlight, the Archbishop motioned abruptly for Fray Diego to stand to one side, so that the jury and the monarchs had clear views of the accused once more.

"This is ridiculous." John had finally recovered his voice. "Have you truly hauled us here to answer for a badly-written bard's tale, which neither of us is responsible for?"

"You still deny your guilt?"

"Absolutely! Is _this_ the evidence you used against Sir Thomas?"

"Boleyn was convicted of far more than this plot. He was involved in a very great many machinations designed to increase his own power at the expense of the King's. To which, I will remind you, he confessed before his execution."

"After torture," Belle put in acidly.

The Archbishop looked at her sharply. "Torture reveals the truth in men's souls." He paused, then tossed off, "and women's," as if in afterthought.

Belle wasn't put off, though. She shook her head. "Torture only gets false confessions; there is no truth within them. A man – or a woman – will say anything to make it stop. Some day you will figure that out."

"Guilty people always deny their own words, even to their death. But when they face their maker, they learn from their misdeeds. And even here on Earth, their guilt comes out. Always." The Archbishop's eyes had fastened on John's face again, predatory. "Their own words – or lack of them – confess their guilt."

"What do you mean?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"'Tis a strange thing," came the mock-musing reply. "You claim to have no knowledge of Boleyn's deeds – and yet, your own letters contain warnings against his plans. You claim to have no knowledge of his arrest and execution – and yet, suddenly your letters stopped, at precisely the same time he was arrested. Why the sudden silence, My Lord?"

John's harsh breathing sounded for a moment, then his sub-zero voice. "I was burying my son." Belle felt him shaking with rage and pain beside her.

" _Your_ son?" came the soft, silky reply. "I wonder..."

Belle felt the ground fall away under her feet. Here it was, after all. She knew one of them had to say something, but she couldn't speak – and apparently, neither could John. The Archbishop allowed the silence to drag out just long enough to be noticeable, his eyebrows flaring.

"A very strange thing, indeed," he repeated. "Two babies, born at the same time, yet one lives... and the other dies... But which was which?"

"That is _preposterous_." The entire court jumped at the sound of this new voice, unheard till that moment. It was Catherine. Every head swiveled towards the Queen, seeing that she'd raised her eyes at last and was staring at the Archbishop in outrage, color flooding her cheeks. "How _dare_ you, Your Reverence? Are you implying that I do not know my own child? You have seen the Prince yourself – and remarked several times on his resemblance to the King. He no more resembles the Viscount than _I_ do!"

Peeking at the Archbishop out of the corner of her eye, Belle saw him realize he'd gone way too far. He bowed low to the Queen, his voice at once obsequious. "Forgive me, Your Grace. It was an idle speculation, utterly false and reckless, and I deeply regret the thoughtless utterance."

Catherine stared a moment longer, then gave her head a slight, jerky nod. As he stood upright again, Belle saw his face, and realized he had meant the apology. It _was_ only an idle speculation. He didn't know.

Her eyes slid back to Catherine's again, trying in vain to catch her eye, but the Queen merely returned to studying the floor again, as if she hadn't said a word.

 _ **SHE KNOWS.**_ The words screamed through Belle's brain, and she fought desperately to keep them off her face, dropping her own eyes to the floor. Somehow Catherine knew the truth – ALL of it. Belle had thought she and Henry had kept their affair strictly secret, that nobody outside of them and John knew her baby's parentage. But somehow Catherine knew. And knew of the switch.

And wasn't saying anything. Why? _Why?_ Belle's head was whirling, and she lost track of what was being said around her. _Why would she keep silent?_ A stray fragment of that bloody book bubbled to the surface: the image of Catherine years before, swearing that her brief marriage to Henry's older brother, Arthur, had never been consummated before his untimely death, allowing Henry to marry her with the Pope's blessing. _Is she just saving her own skin?_

Returning abruptly to awareness of her surroundings, she realized John had recovered from his own shock and was arguing once again. Apparently, though, he had realized the judgment was still against the two of them – had been since the moment they walked in the door.

" _This_ is all you have? A few burnt scraps of bad fiction, a few lines in letters of concern for a friend, and whispered lies? This is _ridiculous_! My Lords..." He flipped his gaze from one side to the other, addressing both the Archbishop and the jury, then turned once more to face Henry directly, pleading, his voice racked with emotion. "My Lord. Your Grace. We have been your most loyal servants, in all times, doing your bidding in all things. Are you going to withdraw your favor over these few scraps of nothing?" His voice broke. "Your Grace!" Glancing at his profile, Belle saw him silently mouth the forbidden familiarity: _Henry_.

And at long last, for the first time since the trial began, King Henry the Eighth spoke, just one single word. Not aloud, but as silently as John had spoken his name, he mouthed one word in return, his lips moving slowly under eyes that had never thawed, would never look warmly upon his sworn liegeman again.

 _William_.

John's former footman – his former lover – had taken his revenge.

* * *

 **Waiting for the End**

Standing next to John after Henry had shown his true motivation, Belle felt all the life seep out of her husband. She didn't have to turn to see the light die in his eyes. This wasn't about the switched babies – unknown, and apparently forever so – or about any wild conspiracy of treason. It was about John's sexual orientation, and the King's disgust at it, and his willingness to throw away a loyal, lifelong friend because of it. And there was no fighting it. If John continued to protest, Henry would make it all public, and his life would likely be forfeit, anyway. If the church didn't burn him at the stake, he'd be hounded to his death by the homophobic people of Tudor England.

Her eyes slid to one side, unexpectedly catching Catherine's upon her, peeking up from under her brows. Belle's face twisted, pleading silently with her friend, and her heart leapt to her throat when Catherine suddenly sat up a little straighter, and drew breath to speak – but then, just as quickly, the Queen winced, hard, and collapsed in upon herself again, her head falling forward to hide her face.

Belle was startled – and then she saw Henry's white-knuckled hand clutching his wife's arm above her elbow, and understood. Catherine was under her husband's thumb, literally; always was, and always would be. A true sixteenth-century woman.

Henry was staring at Belle, now, just as icily as he had been gazing at John till this point. Belle looked straight back into his eyes, as she had the very first day, but this time, no tiny knowing smile played at her lips. She stood with her chin high, as proud and royal as Catherine should have been, unbowed, unbroken.

But ultimately helpless. Henry merely looked away, dismissing her utterly. She swallowed hard, the truth that she had never meant a thing to him crashing down on her at once. He was just a client, after all, who had cast her aside without a thought, as they all did. She had no more claim to his consideration than the dog that usually lolled at his feet – less, in fact.

King Henry looked towards the jury and nodded. Numbly, Belle heard one of them stand and pronounce their judgment: guilty of treason. At Henry's subsequent nod, the Archbishop sonorously proclaimed, "The punishment for treason is death. As His Grace desires that nothing interfere with the joyous celebration of Holy Pentecost this Sunday, your executions will be held on Monday next. Guards!"

Before the soldiers could enter to claim their prisoners, however, John finally stirred, raising his head and opening his eyes again. "My.. my lords..." he began, but only the hoarsest whisper emerged. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing himself to speak louder. "My lords. May the condemned make a last request?"

"What is it?" asked the Archbishop flatly, giving no hope.

"My lords..." John was still staring at the floor, unable to look at Henry again, turning his head slightly to address the jury. "My lords, I beg you. I throw myself upon your mercy – not for myself, but for my wife. She is innocent of these misdeeds. The fault is mine alone. Have mercy on her, and spare her life. She is but a woman, after all, easily led astray – "

"John! No! Stop it!" Belle tugged sharply on his arm, stopping his pleas, pulling him around to peer into his face. "Don't dishonor me like that. I am as guilty, and as innocent, as you."

At last, he looked up into her eyes, and the raw pain within his almost made her cry out. "You value your honor more than your life, Madame?"

"Is my honor – or my life – worth less than yours, because I am a woman? Is that what you think of me, still, after all this time?"

His mouth twisted. "No," he whispered brokenly.

Belle turned back towards the jury herself then. "But I have a request of my own, my lords." She hurried on, not waiting for permission to speak it. "If I am to die, I wish it to be by my husband's side, and wearing the clothes and the jewelry I wore when I first arrived. I want nothing from any of you. Nothing from this place. Let me go to my death as I was then." No one objected immediately, so she went on. "They're rolled up in the bottom of my trunk – the one I was bringing with me to London. Dark blue."

Still none of them signaled any assent, but she'd done what she could. Then the guards were there, and she and John were forced to turn and walk with them out of the Chapel into the sunlight. John was moving mechanically, stumbling at every other step, his face as pale as the death he knew was coming. She clutched his arm and tried to help him across the yard, but at the door of the White Tower they were separated again, against all her protests, and she was shoved back into the same chamber she'd left just an hour – and a lifetime – before, all alone.

^..^

Later, she realized ruefully that she wasn't at all sure what day of the week it had been. She'd lost all track of time ever since the tragedy. She asked the guard who brought her evening hard bread and sour water, and he grunted, "Tuesday."

 _So. Six days to go._

She kept asking about her last request, until her guard became irritated, and she flew to humbly apologize, asking only that he inquire about it for her with his superiors.

At long, long last, three days later, the door opened again, and Belle was amazed to see two guards walk in with her entire trunk. The same man shrugged again, then turned and left without a word.

She flew to the trunk and threw open the lid, pulling out all her so-carefully packed gowns and throwing them on the filthy stone floor without a care. They didn't look as if they'd even been searched. _I should have hidden a sword in here, I might have escaped after all_ , she thought ruefully, but then put it aside. At last – there was her costume, still rolled up right. With trembling hands, she brought it out and carefully unrolled it, glancing at the tiny barred window in the door to make sure she wasn't being watched.

The time jumper fell out into her lap and she snatched it up. Taking a huge gulp of breath, she closed her eyes prayerfully for a moment, then gingerly opened it up and touched Recall.

It was still glaringly, accusingly, blindingly, damningly white.

Crumpling over, she fell on her side in the dust and silently sobbed out the rest of her scant hope.

^..^

Hours later, she suddenly woke up in the darkness, a tiny sliver of light coming from the torch down the hall outside her door. She was still curled up in fetal position beside the open trunk, and she groaningly stretched her aching muscles – and suddenly realized her mind was clear. And very, very, grimly determined.

 _All right, Hannah Rose Tyler. Time to stop acting like a meek little wimpy housewife and take charge. They've knocked you down. So what? Time to get up again!_ The old Chumbawumba tune that always made her smile played through her mind, bringing her chin up and starting a fire in her belly. _You're_ _ **never**_ _gonna keep me down._

 _Although some real food would help_. Come to think of it, that fire in her belly had more than a tinge of hunger to it. _Oh, well. Can't be helped._ And she put the thought aside and went to the water bucket, washed her face, then sat down on the chair and began to think.

She'd failed. She didn't know what she'd done wrong, or if it were only that it was going to take more time for the changes to be wrought, but she couldn't wait for that to happen. She stopped a moment, making herself recall all that Jared had told her about traveling with the jumper around the split, and what would happen in certain circumstances.

Apparently the moment of truth had not yet happened, because she was still here. However, if she tried to return to her own time again without the split having happened, she'd blink out, just as Saxon Rose's backpack had done. Nor could she count on any amount of life at all, frankly. She had to plan as though every move, every minute could be her last.

So. Her life was done – she accepted that without a quiver. But she was damned if she was going to sacrifice John. She'd gotten him into this mess, she wasn't going to abandon him to the executioner's axe.

She didn't know if her other request – that they be executed together – would be granted, but she had no choice but to take the delivery of her requested clothing as a hopeful sign. She would wait until the very last possible second, hoping she'd be able to reach him, to hold his hand long enough to punch a button.

And then what? She didn't dare attempt a time jump; the chances that she wouldn't make it and he'd be dumped without any warning in some foreign time were too high to risk, and without preparing him, he'd likely lose his mind and end up institutionalized.

But they could do a distance jump. Remembering more of Jared's tutelage, she smiled, leaned over and picked the jumper off the floor where it had fallen. He'd said that jumpers kept a log of their location in spacetime, periodically taking a reading and saving it. She found the log and scrolled back. There. That long stream of extremely similar readings HAD to be Mauvais Loup.

OK. She'd preprogram the jumper for a distance jump back to their estate, and then they could make plans, even if they only had a few hours before Henry's troops showed up, seeking them in the most likely place.

John would never be able to resume his life. Viscount Pendleton was effectively already dead, although there was no reason he would blink out when she did, his having been born before the timelines split. But together, once she'd explained the situation – she felt sure that the initial demonstration of the jumper's power would be rather convincing (smiling wryly even as she thought it) – they could pick out a place, and perhaps a time, when he could blend in and begin a new life, still here in Alpha.

Without her. She didn't – _couldn't_ – plan on even arriving there, let alone living for any length of time. The thought wrenched her heart, but she grimly squashed it again. She'd take the time at the estate to teach him all she knew about how to use the jumper, too, just in case. And then make the jump to wherever they picked as their – his – destination with it on his wrist, just in case. _And if I don't even make it to the estate? Well. He'll just have to figure it out, and make his escape without me. There's only but so much I can do._

Pain stabbed at her again without warning, as the thought of leaving her wonderful new life behind – and her baby, safe and snug in Catherine's arms – crashed through her defenses. She sobbed once, gasping, and then determinedly put it from her mind, deliberately beginning to consider various destinations, beginning to prepare a range of choices to present to her future widower.

* * *

 **Execution**

At last the day arrived. Belle had gotten almost no sleep the night before, dozing out while sitting propped against the wall, only to jerk awake again, afraid she'd missed – _What? My execution? No chance to sleep through that, I'm afraid._ She couldn't even laugh internally, though. All her laughter, all her joy, all her life, had been pounded out of her soul.

Wearily, she pulled herself up when the strengthening light at her window signaled the dawn. She washed herself as best she could with the remaining two inches of water in the bucket, and put on her old costume for the first time since her arrival. Carefully buckling the time jumper around her wrist, she resisted the useless impulse to check it again, and then simply sat on her rickety chair, hands folded in her lap, to wait out the last dwindling hours. The guard didn't even bring her usual morning crust of bread; she saw not a single soul until the sun was almost overhead.

She listened hard, but could not hear the sounds outside of any distant crowd – apparently her execution was to be kept as quiet and out-of-sight as her trial had been. Her stomach clenched again in fear, fear that they would refuse her other request, that John would not be there. Well, if he wasn't, she'd jump to the estate anyway, and then try to rescue him somehow using the jumper.

Finally, the thud of boots sounded on the stairs, turned, and came towards her door. Her usual guard glanced in through the window, saw her sitting there, and grimaced. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, saying awkwardly, "It's time, My Lady." He'd actually grown to like his pretty, friendly prisoner, and wished that she hadn't been condemned.

She wasn't sure her knees would support her for a moment, but then she took a deep breath and struggled to her feet, then took a wobbly step towards her destiny. And another, and another, and then she was walking out the door. The guard closed the door behind them and fell in behind her.

No sign of John on the stairs. She wasn't really listening to the guards' chatter, until she heard one of the two in front say, "This strange net keeps catching more victims."

"Her" guard grunted behind her. "It's the little ones I feel sorry for. I heard they were pretty."

Belle stopped abruptly, turning to the man. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

He gazed at her mournfully. "Sir Thomas Boleyn's family. His wife and little girls. They were on their way to a nunnery, but then they caught the plague on the road. They're all three dead."

The world spun around her, and for a moment she almost fainted. She turned abruptly to the narrow window beside her on the stairs, staring out with unseeing eyes. _Anne Boleyn was dead_.

"My Lady?" his voice was worried, but she couldn't speak, couldn't turn.

Slowly, shaking, her eyes dropped to her waist, turning away from the guards' view, and she reached with one trembling hand to open the jumper on her wrist, opening it and pressing recall.

The backlight was glowing a gorgeous, heavenly, sunny shade of yellow.

Moaning aloud, she leaned against the wall, grabbing the window edge with both hands and hanging on to the cool white stone. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she whispered. She would never forget the fate-laden young girl's face, the smile that lit it up, the glint in her eyes. She would remember.

"My Lady?" the guard asked again, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder. She straightened up again, pushing off the wall, and turned to give him a nod.

"I'm all right. I'm just so sorry for those girls. Like you."

Then she turned and continued down the stairs. Her heart was pounding even harder, now, half delirious with fear and giddy relief. _He must be there. He MUST!_

And he was. They turned out the front door and walked around to the rear of the Tower, where a small platform had been raised, with an ominous blocky stone in the middle. She barely registered the presence of the royal carriage to one side, its passengers hidden in shadow, and a contingent of armed guards ringing the square. All she could see was John, standing at the foot of the stairs up to the platform, turning to face her, his eyes sunk deeply into his head.

"John!" she cried, and tried to run to him as she had before the trial, but this time, the guards were ready for her, and held her back.

John was suddenly furious. "Oh, give us a moment, if it's to be our last!" he shouted at the guards, the most ungracious speech she'd ever heard from him.

Released from their grasp, she half-stumbled across the grass, stopping just in front of him, while the guards hung back those few paces, giving the couple their last moment together. Never had she seen a more beautiful sight, a more beautiful man. He was disheveled as before, still unshaven, without his coat or hat on this morning, his dirty white shirt open at the neck, his arms unbound. But he was there, alive. And drinking in the sight of her as thirstily as she was him.

"Do you trust me?" she managed to ask.

"Trust you?" He goggled at her, then gave a short, bitter bark of a laugh. "Madame," he sighed, "in all of my life, you are the only one I have _ever_ been able to trust." And he stepped forward himself, reaching out and taking both her hands in his, smiling that beautiful smile. "I trust you."

Suddenly King Henry's voice rang out from the coach, cranky and ill-tempered. "Headsman, get on with it!"

 _"Oh, fuck off, Henry!_ " Belle replied automatically, swiveling her head and yelling it loud enough for the entire inner ward to hear. "You're a lousy lover, anyway!" She turned back to John, who was gaping at her, jaw dropping. "You weren't missing anything," she told him, grinning sardonically.

He spluttered, then threw back his head and yelled in delighted, giddy laughter.

 _"GUARDS!"_ Henry yelled again, his voice thick with utter fury.

Belle squeezed John's right hand with her left, dropping his other hand, then told him "Hold on tight!" As the guards sprang forward, she popped open the time jumper, and in quick succession stabbed Recall, then at long last, Execute.

And the guards' hands closed on empty air.


	6. Dance 5 Black Sea Horan

**Changing Direction**

 _Alpha Universe, 14th October 1066_

At last, the time jumper was his again. All those contemptible months back here in this disgusting, uncomfortable historical backwater, scheming and planning, concealment and flight, privation and hardship, smooth talking and murder, had finally born their bitter fruit. He was free.

And he was still in his own universe, to boot. Corvantes had indeed listened just long enough to the planning session going on in his own underground headquarters without him to understand what those wretched Tyler girls and the two busybodies who had burst in to "rescue" them were up to. (And his own turncoat technician. But that was a minor issue, albeit one he carefully tucked away to exact payment for at a later date, if he ever ran across him or his descendants again.)

But he had no intention of returning to the scene of the crime. At least, not yet.

No, Paul Corvantes had at last realized that he was thinking too small, when he'd tried to enlist his mirror images in his underworld plots. With the jumper on his wrist, all of time, past and future, was his to explore. The universe, not the world, was his oyster. He would go forth and make many fortunes, many times over, and then, when he was good and ready, he'd come back home to his own time and place, where he was comfortable, and set himself up permanently. Nobody – no cop, no interfering female, no law, no rival, no government – would ever be able to touch him again. Oh, he'd take care of the Tylers, all right, and their two accomplices, but in his own good time. He always chuckled at that thought. He now literally had all the time in the world, and could still come back to blow them out of the water whenever he felt like it.

He started hopscotching through time, staying for now on Earth, going a few hundred years at a jump; getting used to the changes wrought at each step, getting an idea for the sweep of future history, indulging in petty crime to support himself. And then, just for the hell of it, he programmed a jump into the far, far future, a hundred thousand years or more.

Right in mid-transit, however, his arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket, when something seemed to grab the time jumper on his wrist and yank it – and him – sideways. He came stumbling out of the transport flash and went sprawling on an oily metal floor. Coughing from the greasy smoke immediately assaulting his lungs, he shook his head and began to gather himself up, only to be stunned into silent immobility at the sight which met his eyes, materializing through the haze.

His last free thought was to realize the he was only a very puny, insignificant little being, after all.

* * *

 **Fourth Intermission**

Rose Tyler had been having a perfectly ordinary day – ordinary for her, anyway: rude, impatient holiday shoppers had filled the shop all day, running her ragged with their impossible demands, pulling her from one to the next, cursing when she didn't move fast enough or wasn't able to provide the precise item they were looking for. And then Karen, her relief, had been almost twenty minutes late, so she was _literally_ going to have to run to make it to the school on time.

She let herself out through the back door of the shop into the alleyway behind with a sigh of exhausted relief, dropping off the bag of trash into the dumpster, and then forcing her tired, aching feet quickly towards the street. Just as she reached it, a police officer stepped in front of her.

"Rose Tyler?" he asked importantly, flashing his badge. At her startled nod, he grabbed her upper arm and added, "Come with me, please. There's been a spot of trouble."

She felt all the blood drain out of her face, and she turned with him towards the distant school, peering ahead as if she could see the six blocks with telescopic vision. Was that distant smoke, or just the usual haze? "Oh, my god," she whimpered, heart in her throat. "Is it – "

That was as far as she got, however, before the world disappeared in a brilliant flash of light. She stumbled through the blast and out into a completely different street, looking more like a village lane than the busy London avenue they'd just been on. The officer was still holding her arm in a tight grip, but seemingly ignoring her and their incredible transportation, both, as he pulled out a mobile phone and made a call. Before she could gather wits or breath to ask what was going on, it happened again, this time depositing the pair inside a vast metal space, full of computer and lab equipment.

And then a large, imposing man loomed before her, staring down at her with ice-cold sea-green eyes, demanding to know if she'd ever seen him before. Shocked utterly witless, all she could do was wordlessly shake her head; it was the literal truth. _Oh my god, how did he FIND me?_ skittered through her head.

They were interrupted by another flash-bang, and yet another man appeared, holding the arm of... herself. The two mirror images gaped at each other, eyes huge, then they were both pulled around and taken down some dark, metal stairs and shoved into a small cell, where yet four more Roses awaited!

"Oh, for Pete's sake," one of them said. "How many parallel worlds _are_ there?"

Rose looked at the woman blankly. "Parallel worlds?"

The other woman nodded quickly, a picture so familiar to Rose from her own mirror that she felt sick to her stomach. "Yeah. Parallel worlds. And parallel people. We're all different versions of the same exact person, Rose Tyler."

This was impossible. Utterly unbelievable. And yet...

Before they got any further, the door to the cell opened again, and yet another Rose was shoved in to join the six already there. "Oooookay," she said after gaping around. "Definitely parallel worlds."

^..^

And so it went, through the rescue, trooping back upstairs, figuring out what was going on, and starting the process of sending them all back. Rose stayed mostly silent, more and more agitated and upset; she needed to get home! Even with all the evidence staring her in the face, she barely believed all the noise about being in a parallel world and a different time period; it was too impossible to absorb. Even the smooth reassurances from the handsome one, Jack, that she'd be returned to the exact moment she'd been grabbed by the fake police officer didn't help.

 _Well, I guess this is it. I've finally cracked. Might as well go along with it until I wake up or come out of this delusion, whichever it is._ She sighed impatiently, barely holding on to her temper, while one by one the others were sent off to do their jobs in those same flashes of light. It didn't begin sinking in that this was real until the tall skinny one began teaching her and the other three remaining women how to use those strange wristwatch-like devices that seemed to be the cause of all the trouble, these "time jumpers". She had "hers" on her wrist, and it slowly took on tremendous mental weight, anchoring her to reality, almost becoming the single "real" thing in her mind, as she realized it was the only way to get back home – it and whatever it was she was going to have to do back in history.

The last Rose before her finally jumped out to do battle with Henry VIII (Rose vaguely remembering a recent movie about him and his six wives. Didn't seem to be anyone named Belle in the list, though, she mused absently.) The two in charge, since Jack was still missing in action after leaving with one of the others, watched that next pattern take shape on their monitors, glowing a sunny yellow, then at long, long last, Jared turned to her with his supposedly-winning grin.

He drew breath to begin his usual long-winded briefing, but she'd waited long enough. "Spare me the history lesson, please," she cut him off grimly. "Just tell me what I have to do to get home."

His mouth shut with an audible pop, and he considered for a moment, then spoke carefully. "You have to convince a king to go to war." And then he stopped and waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Closing her eyes in exasperation, she sighed heavily. "All right," she gave in. "A _few_ more details, please."

"I'll try to be succinct, but you do need to know a little bit of background," he replied, settling into his spiel with an apologetic air. He started to gesture her into a chair, but then thought better of it and hurried on. "In the first decade of the eighteenth century, Russia and Sweden were engaged in the Great Northern War. Russia, under the Tsar Peter the First, later called Peter the Great in our universe, crushed Sweden's army in the battle of Poltava in June of Seventeen-oh-Nine. Sweden's king, Charles the Twelfth, escaped south and took sanctuary in a little town called Bender, just inside the Moldavian border – Moldavia being next to the Crimean Khanate, and both of them part of the huge Ottoman Turk Empire, and both located along the north shore of the Black Sea – you know where that is?" She nodded.

He went on: "Charles immediately launched into a letter-writing campaign, trying to convince the Ottoman Sultan and his underlings, including the Crimean Khan, to restart their own war against Russia. They resisted for two years, but then Tsar Peter invaded Moldavia himself. He faced off against an overwhelming Turkish army in July, Seventeen-Eleven. The Russians were surrounded and about to be annihilated, but Peter managed to broker a truce with the Turkish general, on very easy terms. Far too easy for some. Peter only gave up a scrap of territory he'd won from the Turks a few years before, and escaped back to an intact Russia.

"The problem was that Charles wasn't there. He was still sulking in Bender. If he'd been at the battle with his few remaining troops – as apparently he was, in your history – then either the battle would have been fought and Peter defeated that way, or the terms of the treaty would have been immeasurably harsher. In either case, in your world, apparently Russia was divided up between the other major powers of the day, and never again reformed or became a world power in its own right. Since in our world, Russia was and is a HUGE deal, that right there is cause for a timestream split.

"So what you need to do, is go to Bender, a month or two before the Russian invasion, and talk King Charles of Sweden out of his funk."

Rose thought a moment. "Well, I guess that doesn't sound so hard," she began, when the conversation was suddenly interrupted, incongruously, by a phone ringing in Jared's pocket. It was Jack, at long last, calling on what they'd termed the "superphone" (although she couldn't see for her life what was so "super" about it). Jared's Rose grinned, and working the big console alongside the tech, Joel, brought the big arch-like structure beyond it alive with crackling electrical energy – and there he was, appearing in an eyeblink in the midst of the storm.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Alpha Rose hollered at Jack, echoing her same grinning demand when he'd earlier rescued them from the cell below. He grinned right back at her, dropping his greatcoat, which he'd been carrying in a bundle, on the floor beside the console.

"Sorry I'm late. Lost the coordinates and had to do it from memory," he replied cryptically, before turning to shoot Jared a serious look. "Hey, are you locking these jumpers? You need to. We had a bit of trouble."

"Locking them? How?"

"You don't know? Never mind, I know – " Jack interrupted himself. " – you had a sports car, not one of these plebian space hoppers. Here, gimme." He spied Alpha Rose's jumper on her wrist and held it up, then showed all of them how to lock and unlock the keypad like any mobile phone, preventing accidental usage. Rose carefully paid attention, then locked her own, checking it a couple of times by pressing various buttons. No response, and she relaxed a hair. Jared then unlocked it again and programmed it while still on her arm for her return target, the point of origin of the last jump it had controlled, when she'd been kidnapped. Finally, he thought a moment, calculating with his eyes closed, then punched in the coordinates for her jump into history.

She peered up into his face while he worked, and then asked him anxiously, all her stomach-knotting worry distilled into one question, "Are you SURE I'll get back home to the same exact moment I left?"

"Completely," came his utterly sincere reply.

She stared a moment longer, gauging his reassurance, then sighed once more. "All right. King Charles of Sweden, then."

She stepped back a pace, straightening her shoulders determinedly. Then she gave them all a brave would-be smile, and pressed Activate, flashing out to meet her destiny.

Alpha Rose started her now-habitual swing to the monitors, but then caught sight of Jared's face. Just as the Swedish Rose had flashed out, he'd drawn breath to speak, his expression suddenly slightly panicked.

"Jared? What is it?" a little panicked, herself.

"Nothing," he muttered, wiping his face blank as he turned around. "I _think_ I programmed that right."

Rose stared at him with trepidation, a hundred memories of the Doctor missing his target crowding her mind, and they slowly swiveled together to watch the monitors, holding their breaths as they waited for the dimension cannon's verdict.

* * *

 **Dance Five: Black Sea Horan**

 **Lost**

Rose came tumbling out of the transport flash, stumbled, and splashed headlong into a muddy puddle. Stunned, gasping, she raised her head out of the muck and blinked. Rain was pouring down all around; she could barely see a melting mud wall a few feet away. Between the inches-deep, watery muck, and the rain falling heavily on her back, she was already drenched through in the seconds since her clumsy arrival.

 _Where the hell am I?_ She pushed up out of the mud and peered around, shivering. She managed to stand up, and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth – it wasn't freezing, but it was definitely too cool to be standing around in wet clothing. As she did so, though, the heavy time jumper on her wrist attracted her attention again, and she quickly pushed the button combo to lock the keypad.

She seemed to be on the outskirts of a tiny village of primitive-looking, round mud-and-wood huts. Without warning, a scream suddenly rang out from the far side of the nearest hovel, then shouts, bangs, and more screams. _What the hell is going on? Jared, what have you landed me in?_ She started to stumble timidly around the side of the hut – it was slow going; the ankle-deep viscous mud clung to her feet and wouldn't let them go. She pulled her left foot up again – and left her "sensible shop-girl" flat behind. Leaning over to try to pull it out of the muck, she lost her balance and fell on her ass – leaving the right flat, as well.

Halfway to hysterical laughter, she managed to pull both shoes out of the sucking mud and simply held on to them as she struggled to her feet again and started towards the ruckus. A few feet further, and suddenly the ruckus was behind her, too. She whirled around just in time to see a horse and rider loom out of the downpour and start to run her down. She never saw the sword hilt descending to send her spiraling back down into the muck and blackness.

^..^

A sharp tug on her arm jerked her back to groggy consciousness. She realized it was her left arm, the one that was wearing the time jumper, just as the fingers fumbling at her wrist managed to undo the clasp and pull it free. She tried to lunge and grab it back, but the blow on her head was still making the world spin, and all she managed to do was roll to her side and collapse again, arms outstretched.

She turned her head to look up, blinking in the rain, and saw an ugly man squatted beside her, inspecting the strange device and grinning through broken, yellow teeth under a scraggly mustache. "No, please..." she moaned, and reached a hand to touch his arm. "That's mine," she continued inanely. "Please give it back."

He peered at her and slithered something off in an utterly incomprehensible language, laughing. When she clutched at his sleeve, he shook her off and stood up, still grinning. Rose struggled to her knees – feet did not seem feasible, with her head still spinning – and tried again, begging.

Irritated now, he raised a hand to backhand her, but was suddenly interrupted by yet another man, splashing over on his horse. This one sat tall in his saddle, wearing arrogance like a cloak, disregarding the rain and the mud like so many gnats. He gave some sharp query, which Mustache attempted to shrug off, but then the leader – Rose somehow decided he was in command – spied the time jumper and pointed to it, slithering off yet more gibberish.

Mustache gave Rose a sidelong sour look, and meekly handed the jumper up to the leader, pointing to her to show where he'd found it. Rose realized knees weren't exactly the most promising position from which to negotiate, and pushed herself up to her unsteady feet to try again.

"Please, that's mine," she began, holding her hand out towards the jumper with a beseeching look. "Please, Captain," dubbing the leader with what seemed an appropriate title, "may I have it back?"

The Captain looked straight at her then, astonished – and threw his head back, roaring with laughter. He tossed off a last command to Mustache, sweeping her with one hand vaguely to one side, and then pulled his horse around to gallop off, splashing them both with more mud.

Mustache grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly along, almost dragging her between the huts and shoving her to the ground in the middle of a group of bedraggled people huddled there. She landed hard on hands and knees, barely keeping her face out of the muck again, then managed to sit back and look around.

There were about thirty people there, of all ages. A dozen men, watched by a few more on horseback, all armed with long knives and primitive-looking firearms, were pulling them roughly this way and that. Rose suddenly realized they were being sorted by sex, and then put into a double line. It wasn't until they came along and tied her hands together, then put them into a loop in a long, thick, very rough rope strung all along the line of prisoners, that the magnitude of her situation dawned on her.

She had absolutely no idea where or when she was.

She'd lost the time jumper, her only ticket home.

And she'd fallen into the hands of slavers.

* * *

 **Trail of Tears**

Life had turned into one long walking nightmare for Rose - "walking" being the operative word. Afterward, she had no idea how long she was on the "rope gang", as she called it, or how far they finally marched. Day after day passed in a painful blur, trudging along behind one horseman or another – whichever one had grabbed the end of the rope she was attached to and tied it to his horse's saddle – far past any endurance. They were allowed to stop for a few minutes to rest occasionally, and simply dropped in their tracks. Rose had hoped they would be allowed off the ropes to take care of business, but no such luck; they were expected to do it right there in line, and she quickly blessed the impulse that had put on her long peasant-style skirt and blouse for work that fateful morning. She couldn't imagine having to drop her usual jeans in front of everyone – their captors made no attempt to hide their leering watchfulness, making loud comments to each other.

The horsemen had passed out blankets the first night against the rapidly falling temperature – probably seized in the village along with everything else – and didn't bother to collect them again, so they were carried folded up and draped over their shoulders during the warm days. Rose wished they had also been a little more generous with other things – her shoes had fallen unseen and forgotten into the mud when she was knocked out, and her lifelong habit of going barefoot whenever she could had only toughened her feet but so much. Nobody offered her any new footwear, though, and she struggled over the rocks and pebbles.

She wondered dully why nobody tried to escape; although her hands were tied so securely that she couldn't work loose, surely someone could? The third day brought the answer, when three of the younger men tied to another rope suddenly broke free and made a break for it, running straight down the slope they were traversing towards the river below. Their captors laughed, and four of them lazily spurred their horses after the escapees, catching up with them before they'd made it to the boulders and surrounding them. The men were made to march back up the slope, bleeding from horrendous gashes on their shoulders, backs, and upper arms from the slavers' long knives, then they kneeled in front of the watching lines – and swiftly, brutally beheaded, an object lesson in obedience.

As Rose and the other captives stared, several of the women wailing for their loved ones, the Captain rode over and dismounted, then fiddled with one of the corpses. When he straightened, he had the man's shoes in his hand, and he walked straight over to Rose and tossed them down at her feet, motioning to the bloody footprints beside her. She stared at him in horror, and he grinned and rode away.

How could she possibly – ? But the pain in her feet, and the realization she'd be left with bloody stumps before much longer, overrode her disgust, and she swallowed it and her pride, and slipped them on. The shapeless lumps of leather weren't too much bigger than her feet, and she tied the thongs securely around her ankles.

The "gift" didn't help her status with the other prisoners, but then, it didn't hurt much, either. She hadn't managed to make any meaningful contact with the women around her, not even the woman directly beside her, who walked like a zombie, tears streaking continually down her otherwise dead, wooden face, moaning softly. Rose finally cottoned to the reason when she noticed the twin wet spots on the woman's blouse, and realized there were no babies or young children anywhere in the group of slaves. They had all been murdered back at the village. Every woman seemed to be in mourning, and none of them so much as spoke a word to Rose, or each other.

She had tried to figure out where and when she was in her lucid moments, of course, but it was impossible. The one clue seemed to be her own continued existence. From her admittedly sketchy understanding of things back with the others, she had to have been sent back to before the point where her timeline split off from the main one; else the moment she got far enough away from the dimension cannon's (whatever that was) effect field, she would have winked out.

Fat lot of good that realization did, though: all it accomplished was placing a bright dividing line across her personal future: July, 1711. She could be any time from a few hours to a few centuries before that deadline.

She had tried a few questions of the women, asking the names she remembered: Charles, Peter, Russia, Moldavia, Bender... but got only uncomprehending stares. From the way the captors shouted and gestured, it seemed they spoke a different language from their slaves, but she didn't get a chance to "question" any of them, either – nor did it seem prudent to attract any further attention to herself.

Nor could she work out any other clues. The clothing meant nothing to her; rough, shapeless, undyed homespun skirts, pants, and tops, and rough-tanned leather jerkins and hats. The footwear, like the pair she'd been given, had never seen a cobbler, but was merely scraps of leather roughly sewn and tied together. The captors seemed a bit better dressed, with heavy black pants and similar, almost-tailored (in comparison) leather jackets, boots that were actual boots, and fur-trimmed hats – but still meaningless; she was no clothing historian. And of course, all the talk she heard was simply gibberish; she'd never had any ear at all for foreign languages; had even failed the one semester of French she'd taken in school.

How she'd ever thought she could handle this mission she never knew. Well, obviously, she hadn't given the practicalities a single, solitary thought. All she'd been focused on, laser-like, was a single idea: getting home again. She found herself whispering it there in the slaver's line, over and over, "I just want to go home." Half delirious with hunger and exhaustion, she even tapped her leather heels together; sadly, those rude, second-hand moccasins were no magic ruby slippers.

All she could do was trudge along with the others, gnaw on the hard bread when it was passed around, keep an eye on the Captain with the time jumper on his wrist, and wait.

^..^

The first night, when they finally stopped and the blankets were being passed around, Rose's worst fear almost came true. Several of the slavers were walking around the women's lines, inspecting them, their gestures and laughter making the object plain. One of the men began to reach for the rope, leering at the woman just in front of Rose – but then a harsh shout interrupted him. The Captain strode angrily over, and a shouting argument erupted. Apparently the Captain was telling the men to leave "the merchandise" alone, and they didn't like it one bit. Finally he shrugged, and gestured to the poor woman, his meaning plain: just the one. She was cut out of line and dragged off behind some boulders, screaming; her screams slowly subsided to whimpers and then silence as the men took turns. Rose never knew the end of the story, but the woman did not return to the line, and her empty spot seemed to gape accusingly to Rose; she dreaded every step she had to take where the woman never would. She never even learned her name.

But after that first night, on the Captain's orders, the women were left alone.

^..^

He caught Rose's eyes a couple of days later, and edged his horse over to walk beside her, curious. They were walking over a meadow filled with wildflowers, in the foothills of a high mountain chain to their left. Rose abruptly registered the landscape for the first time in her misery. They had originally been higher up in the mountains; she remembered walking through valleys that slowly widened even as the rain petered out, always going downhill, then they turned and began paralleling the ridges. The sun had been over her right shoulder when they started early that morning, so they were traveling roughly northwest. They hadn't passed any other villages, or any signs of human habitation at all; apparently this part of the world was only very sparsely populated.

The Captain asked a question, curiosity evident in his voice. She looked up at him again, and he gestured towards her, then towards his eyes, and then himself. _Why do you stare at me?_ she mentally translated. He gave her a wolfish grin, leering, his meaning obvious, and she rolled her eyes.

Her hands were still tied together, but she managed to tap her wrist with a finger, then nodded her head towards his hand, a bare two feet away from her eyes. _So close..._ He glanced down, puzzled, then focused in on the time jumper strapped there, and looked quickly back at her. She could see him make the connection, finally, remembering her as the strange bauble's source.

"It's mine. Please give it back," she spoke to him directly for the first time in days, pleading. She gestured towards herself, then cupped her hands towards him, adding sign language to the words he obviously didn't understand.

He looked back and forth between her and the jumper, then grinned, asking another question, his voice lascivious. _What will you give me in return?_ He leaned over and ran his hand through her hair – and she jerked away from it automatically, before she could think about it.

He only laughed at her rejection, tossed off another remark, and spurred away.

It quickly became a running joke – for him, anyway. Once or twice a day he'd ride by and leer at her, waving his arm so she couldn't miss the jumper on it, then ride on. The third night after that, after they'd stopped for the night, he walked by, and she called out to him in a low voice, "hey!" She'd made up her mind to do whatever it took to get it back.

She got to her knees as he walked over – as far as she could get up while still tied to the rope – and gave him a level look. She couldn't manage to fake a smile, but she hoped her willingness was showing through anyway.

He wasn't dumb. He knew what the game was. He ran his fingers through her blonde hair again, a calculating look in his eyes. But then he pushed her away, and shook his head. He pointed away, to some unseen spot in the direction they were traveling, then pointed to the jumper, Rose, then himself. Then walked away, laughing. But she got the message.

 _When we get to wherever it is we're going, then we'll see. All debts come due at the end of the trail._

* * *

 **The Market**

At long last, having tramped across uncounted miles of empty territory, they left the mountain range behind and headed towards a huge body of water, sparkling in the distance. Once they reached the shore, which Rose thought was big enough to be an ocean or an inland sea, they turned slightly north and marched on for another half a day, at last reaching a small town. The slavers bunched their captives even closer together and rode around the outside, herding them to the tiny port past the staring inhabitants of the town like so many leashed-together cattle. An open-decked ship was docked there, and after a short negotiation between the slaver Captain and vessel's master, they were all marched on board and the ropes tied to various bulwarks. It turned out to be a galley, and the strongest of the male slaves were released from their ropes and secured to their new personal hells, chained to the oars, in the half-dozen open spots. Apparently they had unknowingly paid the way for the rest with their own labor and lives.

They waited a couple of hours for the rest of whatever cargo the ship's captain was purchasing to be stowed in the hold below them in wooden barrels and crates, and finally the slavers' own horses were brought on board, skittishly dancing across the gangplank, and put into a quickly-strung makeshift rope corral at the rear of the ship, just behind Rose and the other slaves. At last they cast off, and the endless, monotonous drumbeats began, keeping time for the rowers. Their route continued northwest, just in sight of the land. They kept it up from dawn till dusk, with a few short breaks, and pulled in close enough to the land to drop an anchor each evening. Rose, like all the rest, was just glad to be off her feet at last, and let herself be lulled into a waking doze by the drums.

Five days later, they pulled into another port, this one at the edge of what looked like a large, busy city, the whitewashed walls and tiled roofs marching up the sides of nearby hills giving it a Mediterranean air, and Rose wondered again where in the world she was. A large, ornately gleaming building sprawled across the top of the nearest hill, looking serenely palatial. Dozens of galleys and sailing ships were moored in the harbor, with tiny rowboats scuttling across the water between them and the docks poking out from high city walls. The ship's captain dropped anchor in the middle of the harbor and left the ship in one of the rowboats, along with the slaver Captain, intent on their respective business. Both of them returned a few hours later, and the ship was slowly maneuvered right up next to the dock to be unloaded.

The slaver Captain had evidently brought back some exciting news, judging from the reaction of his men, who were suddenly energized, jabbering and hollering animatedly. They carefully led their horses off the boat, then impatiently yanked the slaves to their feet – still attached to the same ropes – and chivvied them quickly up off the docks and into the city.

Rose's head was whirling; sights and colors and incredible smells were coming so fast that she didn't have time to register anything individually. The place was jammed with people and animals – horses, pigs and even camels – and the dung made walking treacherous. They were led a few blocks away and then turned through an iron gate into a large, smelly courtyard, bare of adornment, but surrounded on all sides by a two-story building. Black doorways covered by more iron bars gaped at short intervals on each floor, giving the immediate impression of a prison. The slaves were cut loose at long last from the ropes that bound them and divided up, a large group shoved into each of a dozen rooms along one side, and the bars slammed shut behind them and were locked with large, ornate padlocks.

Not a prison. A slave market.

Rose whirled back around, her hands free for the first time since her arrival, and ran the two steps back to the bars, peering through them to search for the Captain, still wearing her time jumper on his wrist. He was back on horseback, watching his men quickly mount up themselves, and then they whirled around and clattered out of the gate en masse.

Gone. All she could do was stand and stare in shock at the blank, empty gate, as it clanged shut behind her only hope of ever getting home.

^..^

Two long days later a commotion outside in the courtyard startled Rose out of her doze as she sat leaning against the wall of her cell, and she sprang groggily to her feet and ran to the bars again with the others. A large group of men were slowly walking along in front of the cells, apparently inspecting the merchandise.

And in the lead was the Captain. She caught his eye, and he grinned at her, stepping away from the others towards her cell. The jumper was still on his arm, and she gulped, swallowing her heart again as it leapt upwards.

"Please," she whispered, reaching out towards him with trembling hands. Tears sprang to her eyes. "I just want to go home. Please give it back to me." She knew he didn't understand a word, but surely he didn't need to.

He was still grinning, even as he shook his head, one hand almost unconsciously moving to touch the jumper on his other wrist. He took a breath to speak – but was interrupted by a soft inquiry. Both of them jumped, and the Captain stiffened, whirling around to face the interlocutor.

The other men had caught up with them. In the lead, obviously the one who'd just spoken, was... a prince. There was no doubt in Rose's mind that this was a VIP, from the top of his perfectly pleated turban to the pointed tip of his shoes. Every inch of the man was washed, oiled, and perfumed, dressed in eye-piercing white, adorned with gold thread and flashing jewels.

The Captain murmured some demurral, and the prince glanced curiously between him and Rose – but then his eye was caught by the Captain's hand, and the strange device he was touching. He pointed to the time jumper, obviously asking what it was. The Captain, caught, instantly smoothed a mask of willing servitude over his reluctance, slipping the jumper off his wrist and presenting it to the prince with a low, courtly bow, holding it out on both upturned palms like an offering.

The prince plucked it carefully from his hands, not touching his flesh, and held it up, inspecting it from all angles. He posed another question, and the Captain replied, "Nemidanam, Khan Giray."

Rose blinked, then gave a tiny gasp. For the first time since her arrival, it was as if her ears were unstoppered, and the Captain's sentence had entered her brain as separate words, not indistinguishable noises. She still couldn't translate what he'd said, but one word leapt out at her. Khan. _Didn't Jared say that one of the minor characters in "my" story was a khan? Isn't that a ruler of some sort?_ She looked back at the prince, who had turned at her gasp to stare at her again, his arrogant black eyes piercing right through her skin. As best she could, she sank into a small, awkward curtsey, the kind she'd seen on the telly when someone was presented to the Queen. _I don't exactly fancy becoming a member of a harem, but if that's what it takes..._

But it wasn't. Those black eyes swept her down, then flickered away, dismissing her. Another man, behind him, leaned in with a polite inquiry, and the prince gave the other women in the cell a quick once-over, then shook his head, rejecting all of them before turning away and once again admiring the time jumper.

As the rest of the crowd turned to follow the prince, the Captain looked back at Rose for the last time. He paused, seemed about to say something, then shrugged apologetically and turned away, straggling behind the prince's entourage. Rose watched them stroll across the courtyard and walk out the gate, utterly bereft of hope.

^..^

She watched with dull, uncaring eyes as her fellow slaves were bought and led away in dribs and drabs over the next few days, the money jingling in her jailor's pockets. She was inspected through the bars a number of times, but each time was rejected, and she tried not to take that as a blow to her ego. Finally, a man with a pair of hulking, dark-skinned bodyguards bought her and the half-dozen other women who were left, and they were once again roped together loosely for a walk across the town to their final destination.

She never made it there. A few blocks away from the slave market, a group of rowdy young men spied them, and immediately surrounded the group, talking and laughing with their new owner, coming in between the women and fondling them right there on the street. Rose slapped away the hands of the one who'd picked her out, and got into a tussle with him, crying out, "Get your hands off me! Leave me alone!" Instantly angered, he slapped her hard across the face, and she fell to the filthy, muddy street in a heap, and huddled there, sobbing, waiting for the next blow to descend.

Instead, an argument broke out above her head, which she ignored, staring at the dust in humiliation. After a few minutes, the argument ended, and a man's hand reached down with a knife and cut her free of the rope. The knife disappeared, and the hand came down again, taking her forearm, not roughly.

She slapped it away again, anyway, flinching. "Leave me alone!" she repeated, her voice thick with tears of despair.

"You know," said the hand's owner above her head, sounding lightly amused, "since I just bought your freedom, you might want to consider being nice to me."

In English.

* * *

 **Rescued**

Rose gaped up at the man looming over her, utterly flabbergasted at hearing her native language for the first time since she'd been dumped... wherever she was. The impression of sky-blue eyes surrounded by wheat-blonde hair and a friendly smile was all she could absorb.

"You... you speak English!" she finally stammered.

"Yes," he agreed sunnily, and then offered her his hand, not grabbing her arm as he'd done before, and asking rather more pointedly, "Can we get out of here?"

She suddenly came back to herself, registering the departure of the other slave women and their master – briefly her own. They were attracting some attention from the other masses of passersby, who either cursed in annoyance at the obstruction of her plopped on the filthy dirt street or jeered at her pitiful appearance. She nodded, taking his hand, and he pulled her swiftly (but not ungently) to her feet, then quickly switched clasps, taking her left hand firmly in his right, swiveled around and began walking at a fast clip down the street. "Stay close!" he admonished in a low voice over his shoulder.

He darted through the crowds with her in tow, working his way over to one side of the foot- and animal-traffic flow. They'd gone a couple of blocks before he suddenly swerved to an awning protecting a bakery, tossed a coin to the boy behind the stall, and grabbed a large round of fresh-baked bread and handed it to her, all in one smooth, swift movement. He took the second to look at her, saying, "Sorry for dragging you off like this, but we must – I must get to the north gate. Explain later. Come on!" And off they went again, Rose clutching the bread to her side with one arm as she held on to his hand like a lifeline with the other.

She wondered at herself, briefly, for just following tamely along yet again – but then again, this was the first person she'd found that she could actually communicate with; she wasn't going to just throw that away. Besides, he'd said he'd bought her _freedom_ , not _herself_ , which (hopefully) meant he didn't now consider her his slave.

She studied him in snatches in between watching her step on the treacherous street: a couple of inches taller than herself, middle-aged (she guessed early forties), with northern European features and sunburnt Caucasian complexion rather than the swarthier varieties she'd seen till now. Her rescuer was neither wildly handsome nor plug ugly, she decided but... interesting-looking. A friendly, lively intelligence was betrayed by the sparkle in his eyes, and a trim mustache, wheat-blonde like his hair, adorned his upper lip, but no beard – although he needed a shave. He was dressed, like many others they passed, in nondescript trousers and an almost smock-like pullover shirt of the ubiquitous undyed homespun cotton, and a shapeless felt hat that let his mid-length hair escape. A rough pack slung over one shoulder and well-worn but good quality calf-height leather boots completed the picture of a traveler not without some means making an effort to blend in with the locals.

Finally, after about half an hour at the same fast clip, they approached an intersection with a large avenue ahead – a very crowded avenue, with lines of horsemen trotting swiftly by in one direction, and masses of people standing on the sides giving the scene the appearance of a parade of sorts. Her companion stopped short, then rapidly switched direction, dashing down an alleyway parallel to the avenue, then another, then up some steep stone steps – and suddenly they were standing on top of the city wall, looking down at the broad plain to the north of the city.

It was a parade of sorts – a military sort. Masses of armed, uniformed soldiers were riding in formation, five abreast, passing out of the city and down the dusty road, headed north. Rose's jaw dropped as she surveyed the impressive scene; the sunlight flashing off weapons and decorations, the noise of the cheering crowd waving their sons and husbands off to war.

The blonde man had dropped her hand as soon as they'd reached the parapet, and started, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, tapping a complicated rhythm on various fingers. Periodically he tapped hard on his right leg. His lips were moving slightly, as he stared down towards the beginning of the line, almost out of sight, then slowly swept his gaze back to the gate. It dawned on her that he was counting the horsemen, using some mnemonic method on his fingers, and she automatically began keeping track of his leg taps as she tore off a bit of the bread and began nibbling on it, famished; those taps seemed to be the least common – and therefore the highest order of whatever system he was using.

Several minutes passed in silence between them as the incredible parade passed by. Finally, the horsemen turned into carts and wagons of supplies, creaking and groaning down the road after the cavalry.

The man gave a sharp nod, beginning to mutter audibly, "Five, ten - "

"Twenty-eight," she interrupted, and he swiveled around to glare at her, irritated.

 _"What?"_

"You tapped your leg twenty-eight times."

Mouth snapping shut, he blinked hard at her, eyebrows flaring. Then, "Thank you," he told her, his voice tinged with surprised respect. He flashed a tiny grin as he looked back at the retreating army. "Twenty-eight hundred, then. Add twelve hundred two days ago, makes four thousand. And six shiploads of supplies by sea." He nodded sharply again, as if settling the numbers into his memory, then turned back once more to give Rose a sweeping glance from bedraggled head to ragged toe and then another, much more friendly smile.

"I bet you'd like a hot bath, wouldn't you?" The expression on her face was enough answer, and his grin widened. "Come on, then. I know a decent inn not too far from here."

^..^

Rose adored the luxury of a long, hot bubblebath as much as any woman in history, but this one - sitting in a large, rough wooden tub, having the water poured over her by an attendant, and scrubbed down with a bristle brush - had them all beat, for the sheer pleasure of simply being _clean_ after weeks of filthy marching. Especially afterwards, when she rubbed light, scented oil into every inch of skin, locking the last bit of moisture in and conditioning her hair in one go. She even got a brand-new set of clothes into the bargain, slipping into crisp, unbleached underclothes, then a gleaming white, long-sleeved pullover blouse and skirt that almost swept the floor, followed by a knee-length, full, wraparound apron of dark blue, with floral designs stitched around the hem in red. No new shoes were available, but she kicked the now-useless old leather scraps aside and went barefoot for the time being.

The inn had only been a few blocks away from the wall, at that. Her companion had led her there and into the common rooms, calling for the manager in the local dialect and apparently negotiating her bath. Then he'd sent her off with the young woman who appeared from the back rooms with reassurances that she'd be taken care of. Her clothes had arrived a short time later; she wasn't sure from where.

Now she was being shown by the same young woman into an upstairs room, the floor covered with rugs and cushions and low tables like something out of Arabian Nights – and there he was again. He'd been sitting beside one of the low tables, writing in a small, well-worn notebook, but he tucked his pencil into the book immediately and put it on the table, standing swiftly and giving her a broad smile. "Better?" was all he said. Apparently, he'd also taken the opportunity to bathe and shave, once again whisker-free, and with a newer-looking shirt on that smelled of soap and cotton.

She smiled back. " _Much_ better. Thank you." She lifted a corner of the apron. "Was this from you?"

He shrugged deprecatingly. "A small gift."

"Thank you," she repeated, then, "Mister...?"

"Oh! Forgive me, madame; I never introduced myself." He dipped his head in a small bow. "Thorsten Sjovold, at your service."

It wasn't until he spoke his name that she really zeroed in on his accent. They had exchanged so few words that it hadn't fully registered. Her answering smile faltered, confused, then she shook her head at herself. "I'm sorry. I thought you were English."

He chuckled. "No. I spent several years in England, furthering my education – including learning your language. But no. I'm Swedish."

She perked up at that. "Swedish?"

"Ja," Thorsten replied, letting the accent really show now. He motioned her over and down onto the cushions on another side of the table he'd been sitting at, resuming his own seat. "But what is your name, please?"

She blushed at having forgotten her manners. "Rose. Rose Tyler."

"Charmed." His smile imbued the trite reply with genuine meaning. He tipped his head to one side and went on. "But I am wildly curious as to how you managed to get into the predicament I found you in?"

Rose shook her head ruefully. "It's a very long story. And you wouldn't believe it, anyway. I don't even know where or when I am."

"Where or..." he repeated, puzzled, but then went on. "Allow me, then. You are in the city of Caffa, on the southern edge of the Crimean Peninsula in the Black Sea, within the Tatar Khanate. I take it you were brought here from somewhere else, then?"

She nodded, but didn't elaborate. "The Crimean Peninsula..." she murmured, not recognizing the name. "Is that near Moldavia?"

Thorsten gave her a quick double-take, then shook his head, picking his notebook up off the table and turning to a page near the front. Across both opposing sheets was a hand-drawn, sketchy map of the area, showing the sweep of the northern shore of the Black Sea. He pointed out the landmarks from west to east: the mouth of the mighty Danube and Dneister Rivers, with the country of Moldavia tucked in between, then the diamond-shaped Crimean Peninsula, with the Sea of Azov to its northeast, and finally a long empty stretch down the eastern shore to a range of mountains running southeast.

Rose walked her fingers from where he pointed out Caffa over to Moldavia. A tiny dot on inland on the Dneister was even marked "Bender" in tiny, precise lettering – his, she presumed. "How far is that?"

"About three hundred miles by land," was the reply.

She sighed. "Still a long way." Then, remembering, she looked up at him questioningly. "And please, what is the date?"

"May..." He rifled through the book to the last page with writing on it. "May thirtieth."

"And the year?"

Now he _really_ gave her a strange look, but answered readily enough. "Seventeen hundred and eleven."

"So I have about a month," she said to herself, recalling Jared's target date for the battle of July of that year. Suddenly it hit her: she hadn't been flung as far afield in time _or_ space as she'd been afraid of all this time. Tears prickled, and she let herself breathe the hope, "I might just make it after all..."

* * *

 **Turn Around**

Thorsten broke into Rose's thoughts, then, with his own far-ranging curiosity. "How did you know what to count, back there on the wall?" He tapped the table a couple of times with a finger, reminding her.

She grimaced. "OCD. I'm a counter." His confused look told her he had no idea what 'OCD' meant. "I can't help it. I automatically start counting any regular, rhythmic sound or motion. 'Bout drove myself insane counting drum beats on the galley."

Diverted, he almost pounced. "You came here to Caffa on a galley ship? With rowers? From where?"

She shook her head, perplexed. "From somewhere to the southeast," was as good as she could answer, remembering the direction of each landward sunrise and watery sunset.

"How long was the voyage?"

"Five days." That much she was sure of.

Thorsten flipped back again to the map, running his finger along the shore of the Black Sea east and then south. It stopped just short of the sketchy mountains. Rose leaned forward, concentrating.

"Yeah... we started up in some mountains, walked... north, I guess, then turned left and walked alongside them towards the northwest until we came to the shore..."

Thorsten's finger moved down into the mountains as she spoke. "So you came from the Circassian Mountains?"

She shrugged. "I guess so."

"And how did you get there? You're not Circassian, you're definitely English."

And they were back to the morass again. Rose bit her lip, staring away at the wall. "You wouldn't believe me..." she repeated.

Thorsten startled her by laying a warm hand over her own as it rested on the table, and she dragged her eyes back to his, warm and sparkling at her. "Try me," he said softly. "I can't argue with the fact that you're here."

So she took a deep breath, and trepidatiously at first, began recounting her story from the moment she'd left the shop.

^..^

Two hours later, throat hoarse, she finally ended, on her ass in the street where he'd bought her freedom. The innkeeper had brought in their supper while she talked, and they had shared the meal like old friends. Thorsten frowned in concentration while she took a sip of the rough red wine to soothe her throat.

"Tell me again what that man – Jared? – what he told you about what is supposed to happen."

"The history lesson? All right..." Rose closed her eyes and concentrated. "He said that during the past few years before now Russia and Sweden had been at war, but Russia won some big battle. The Swedish King, Charles, escaped and went to Moldavia, and tried to get somebody else – the Turks, I think?" Peeking out, she saw him nod, and continued. "Tried to get them to go to war against Russia, and finally succeeded. There's some big battle this July, and the Russian Tsar will agree to a peace treaty, but a very easy one. The problem is that Charles isn't there; he's sulking or something and won't go.

"So apparently, in the other timeline, Russia goes on to become this huge empire. That's not how it went in my history, though – Russia's just this little backwater East Asian country nobody bothers about."

"And Sweden?"

"Yeah, it was a big empire, itself, until recently."

He nodded, thinking. They were silent for a bit, then, "And what about this device? What did you call it? The one that brought you here?"

"The time jumper? The 'Captain' – I mean, the leader of that slave raid – he stole it from me."

"He likely has it with him, then. If he was on horseback, then he's one of the Tatar cavalry, and would have left with the army today."

But Rose was shaking her head. "No, he doesn't have it any more. He gave it to that other man, the Prince... I think he called him 'Khan' something..."

Thorsten looked at her sharply. "Khan Giray?"

"Yes, that's it! Do you know where we can find him?"

"He's also gone. He left two days ago, leading the first contingent."

Her suddenly soaring hopes were equally suddenly dashed on the rocks. "Nooooo!" she half-wailed, despairing. How could she ever find it and get it back now?

He covered her hand again, grinning wolfishly. "Not to worry. The Khan is taking his army to join the army of the Sultan, to crush Tsar Peter. The Russian invasion has already begun. We'll meet the Khan on the field of that last battle, when we get there. Where will it be?"

Rose thought furiously, trying to remember. Slowly, though, her head began shaking again. "He never said. Jared never said the name of the place."

Thorsten blew out his breath in an exasperated raspberry, then shook his own head. "Well, it doesn't matter. Two great armies like that can't be too hard to find." He grinned. "First things first. We need to get to Bender and convince Charles to come out of his tent."

He picked up the book again and began studying the map. Suddenly it all fell into place for Rose. "You're a spy!" she accused him, not altogether unhappy. "You're Charles's spy!"

He shot her an offended look. "Madame, please! I do not skulk around, pretending to be someone I'm not. I travel quite openly. Well," he amended, grinning, belying the offense, "quietly. But I do not lie." He turned serious. "I'm Charles's attache, and an observer, sent by and representing the Swedish Ruling Council. Charles asked me to go and 'observe' the Russians building their forts and ships in Azov," he tapped the map, on the dot at the far northeast end of the Sea of Azov, "and then I made my way down here along the eastern shore," and his finger traced that route back to Caffa.

"And now I will take you back to Bender, and together we can 'observe' how to motivate a King to war."

Rose was suddenly struck with how seriously he was discussing all this.

"You... you believe me?" she quavered softly.

He leaned back on one elbow, studying her with a level look. "Well, the first part of your history lesson is certainly true – although I suppose you could have learned that from street talk. The Russian army is on its way south, the Turkish army is gathering to meet it, and I left Carolus – Charles," he corrected himself at her quizzical look, "sulking in his tent six months ago.

"We'll have to see if the rest of it comes true – but as a Swede, I'd certainly rather see my country come out on top than the Russians. If Charles's presence at the battle is what turns the tide, then by all means, let's get him there!" His voice was suddenly infused with infectious enthusiasm, making it sound like a game. A game they could win.

He glanced at the window, which was now quite dark. "We'll need to leave early in the morning." Suddenly he looked abashed. "Uh... I'm sorry, but they only had this one room open. Would it be all right with you if we shared it? There are plenty of cushions to make beds far apart."

She smiled at the table, blushing. "Yes, that's OK. I trust you," she added quietly, realizing even as she spoke that it was completely true.

So they stood, and each piled rugs and cushions to their taste, on opposite sides of the room, then settled down to sleep in their clothes.

For the first time since her life had been wrenched so dreadfully off course, Rose drifted off to sleep with a quiet note of hope threading through her heart. She might just make it home, after all. _Hang on, baby_ , she sent out to the ether. _I'm trying_.

* * *

 **Off Again**

Rose awoke from a sound sleep the following morning to find herself alone. Thorsten's pile of cushions was dented, but empty. She swung her legs around and sat up, suddenly bereft – but then spied his backpack leaning against one leg of the low table. There were a couple of pieces of fruit on the table, holding down a tiny scrap of paper. When she picked it up, it looked like it had been carefully torn from his little notebook. In the neat handwriting she recognized from the map, he'd written only two words: "Back soon."

The fruits turned out to be ripe black plums, and she settled back to enjoy them slowly; the first fruits she'd had since her arrival. Licking her fingers to get every drop of the sweet juice, she almost regretted washing face and hands afterwards.

An hour later, however, she was beginning to get nervous at his continued absence. Surely he'd come back for his pack, at least?

After another hour passed, she couldn't sit still any longer. Ears pricked for any sound from the hallway outside, she picked up his pack and poked through it, curious. All she found were some clothes, however, which didn't give any clues to the man, his plans, or his current whereabouts. He must have taken the notebook with him.

She set the pack back down by the table and forced herself to sit on her bed, back against the wall, and be still. She refused to pace, or go outside. She'd just about lost that battle, too, when suddenly the door opened and he walked in, obviously irritated.

She couldn't stop her sigh of relief – and immediately, a look of contrition crossed his face, and he apologized profusely for leaving her along so long. Then he knelt down in front of her bed, handed her the package he was carrying, wrapped in a scrap of cloth, and smiled. "A peace offering. Try these on."

"These" turned out to be a pair of thin-soled shoes, dark blue, which matched her new apron perfectly. They also fit perfectly, and she peered at him in suspicion. "How did you know what size to get?"

"Swedish magic!" he replied, eyebrows raised, innocently matter-of-fact. At her "oh, really?" look, he merely turned up the innocence a notch. So then she crossed her arms, not letting him get away with it, and he actually blushed, surprising her. "I measured your foot with my hand while you were sleeping," he confessed, then hurried to reassure her, "but I swear, I didn't touch you!"

Rose laughed then, letting him off the hook, and thanked him profusely for the gift. "They're lovely – thank you!" Then she turned serious. "But where have you been?"

The irritation returned, but it was evidently not directed at her. "Trying to get us out of here!" he replied, moving to settle himself beside the table again. "I was down at the port, looking for passage on a ship bound for Odessa," and she remembered seeing that city marked on the map, on the coast of the Black Sea between their location and Moldavia, "but there's none to be had! All the long-distance ships were pressed into service carrying supplies for the army. The only boats left are tiny local fishing boats – they wouldn't get us more than a few miles down the coast."

"So what's the alternative?" she asked.

"We'll have to go by land," Thorsten replied. "Which means either walking, or riding horses. Have you much experience on horseback, Rose?"

She laughed helplessly. "I've never been on a horse in my entire life."

He grimaced. "I wouldn't recommend a three hundred mile journey for your first time, then." He sighed. "Well, I suppose we could try to find a cart, and a horse to pull it. Otherwise, we're on foot." He thought a moment. "We could still make it on time. We have all of June, right?"

She nodded. "I guess so. The battle isn't until some time in July. I wouldn't want to count on it, though. We still don't know where it is exactly, and we still have to convince Charles, and then get there."

"True. Still, though – if we only manage ten miles a day, we'd make it to Bender by the end of June. Every mile more than that gets us there that much quicker."

Rose was confused. "What about horses, though? With or without a cart?"

He gave her a sour look and shook his head. "I walked back through the horse market. There's nothing to be had. The army apparently scooped up all available mounts, as well as ships." He sighed again. "We can go back and look again. But I'm not hopeful. We're probably going to be walking, at least for the first part. We should be able to find something eventually, though." Suddenly a thought struck him, hard, and he groaned and rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"What?" she cried, alarmed.

"Which means you need boots," he said, shaking his head – obviously at himself, this time. "Those shoes are paper-thin; they won't last one day."

She pursed her lips at him, eyes dancing. "I don't care. I still love them. And I'm not giving them back."

Mollified, he only smiled.

^..^

They found her some boots at a little shop near the inn, then walked through the nearly empty stalls of the horse market just in case. Thorsten was right; the only animals available were all either half-wild, or so decrepit they looked about five minutes from croaking where they stood. They were just about to leave when Thorsten spotted a hidden treasure – although Rose didn't agree with that assessment at first! – a young, tiny donkey, barely taller than Rose's waist. He convinced her to go along with it, though, and threw himself into the bargaining with the donkey's seller, telling her in English to "act like you're talking me out of it" and even pretending to lose interest and walk away before the man got down to the price Thorsten wanted. "We could probably have gotten him down to half this, even, if we'd been able to wait till tomorrow to finish it," he told her, grinning, as they walked away leading the beast on a fraying rope. "But this was still a good morning's work."

"So tell me why we need him?" she asked, still perplexed. "It's not like we can ride him."

"Actually, we probably could," he replied. "They're much stronger than they look. But mostly, we'll use him to carry supplies and food, so we don't have to keep stopping all the time." Matching action to words, he stopped at another shop and bought a better, leather lead, and a pair of woven wicker panniers to strap across the donkey's withers, and then walked back through the food market, loading the panniers with hard-rind fruit, a few small loaves of bread, strips of dried meat, handfuls of hazelnuts, several small but thick blankets, a length of rope "just in case", and a long knife reminiscent to Rose of the ones the slavers had carried. She hadn't realized till just then that Thorsten was comparatively unarmed, having only a small knife at his belt.

"Poor beast needs a name," she commented as Thorsten strapped the lids of the panniers down at last, and he shrugged.

"Pick one."

She thought a moment, then decided. "Let's call him Caesar."

He threw her an amused look, then went to stand in front of the donkey. "Are you a Caesar?" he asked it, mock seriously. The animal looked at him, pinned his ears back, and brayed. "I'll take that as a yes."

^..^

Three or four days later, they'd made it a fair distance north of Caffa, but still on the Crimean Peninsula, Thorsten said. Walking along the dusty road, Rose stole a glance sideways at him striding along beside her, leading Caesar through the late afternoon sun, his blue eyes scanning the track ahead and the horizon all around, ever vigilant.

"Thorsten? Why did you buy my freedom, back there in Caffa?"

Eyebrows flaring in amusement, he tossed her a quick smile. "Had to!" he replied with sunny conviction. "I'm too well trained to leave a damsel in such obvious distress sitting in the muck!"

She snorted and rolled her eyes, but before she could speak, he went on, suddenly serious.

"I've learned to trust my instincts over the years. And the moment I saw you – no, the moment I heard you, speaking English, my instincts told me to step in. And I'm glad I did."

"Do you... really believe me, though?"

They took a number of steps while he thought about it. "I neither believe nor disbelieve your story about moving through time. There's no hard evidence either way. I'll wait until I get some.

"But there is one thing in your favor," he went on. "It's common knowledge that war has begun again between Russia and the Ottoman Empire, and that the armies are heading towards a clash somewhere to the west. You could have picked that up in the street. It's even fairly common knowledge that Charles is in Bender. But how could you have known that he was refusing to join the Turkish army?"

"But that didn't convince you," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "No."

"Then why...?" She gestured to the track, meaning their journey west.

"I'm Swedish," he said simply. "I'm loyal to my country, if not to my King. As I said the other day, I'd much rather see Sweden triumph over Russia, even by proxy, than the other way around. And if Charles's presence at that inevitable battle is what turns the tide – and it could be; he's quite a force to be reckoned with when he puts his mind to something – then why not try to get him there?" He was quiet for a moment. "As well, it's time I was heading back to Bender anyway, with the information I do have."

Diverted, Rose asked, "What information is that?"

He shot her a calculating look. "Not as much as I wish I had." He grinned. "You accused me of being a spy. I'm not – precisely – but I was on the trail of a Russian one, nicknamed Plokhoi Volk. I didn't find him, but I found some things out about him. I need to get that back to Charles."

"Plokhoi Volk?" she repeated, struggling with the pronunciation.

"It translates to 'Bad Wolf', I think."

"Well," she said. "I'm glad you don't think _I'm_ the spy. Or do you?"

He grinned again, broadly. "If you are, you're the best actor I've ever seen. You don't understand ANY of the local languages, or you would have reacted to some of the things they were yelling at you at the market. I was watching, and you never blinked." Again, he turned serious. "But that gives some credence to your story, as well. How in the world could a young English girl have gotten halfway across the world, all by herself, with no knowledge of local language or customs – or even where she is – and nobody looking for her, either? They knew about you – talk was all over the city about this strange young yellow-haired girl – but no hint of where you came from, and no word of anyone else that you might have been traveling with, or belonged to. It's like you dropped out of the sky.

"Add all of it up, and my instincts tell me that – aside from you being a lovely young woman and happy companion – "

"Thank you!" she interjected, warmed by the description.

" – you're definitely someone to keep an eye on."

"I think," she added, ruefully.

Thorsten chuckled, then leaned over conspiratorially. "Besides, we blondes need to stick together!"

That put her back in mind of her other curiosity. "So tell me," she began casually. "Is there a Mrs. Thorsten?"

He shot her a strange look. "You mean ett fru Sjovold?"

She spluttered laughter. "Et froo..."

Joining in her laughter, he said it again, and again, trying to teach her to pronounce the Swedish. She finally managed a decent approximation, to his enthusiastic approval.

But it didn't get him off the hook. "So is there?"

Another sideways look, not serious. "Why, are you volunteering?" She spluttered again in response, embarrassed this time, then he rescued her once more, shaking his head. "No, I'm not married. I have nothing to offer a wife. I was the younger son, you see, and my brother, who inherited the estate – such as it was – managed to gamble it all away and drink himself to death at the same time, in just five years."

Shocked, she managed to mumble, "I'm sorry," but he shook his head again.

"It was a very long time ago," he said kindly. "And I've done well for myself, I think. I've had an … interesting life. But still... not enough to offer a wife."

"Well," she said sympathetically, "Money isn't everything." A beat. "But it sure does help," she added ruefully.

"Spoken like someone who knows," he grinned. Then, catching her by surprise, he turned it back. "And you? Is there a... Mister Rose?"

She blushed. "No." After a beat, she added, "But that doesn't mean there's nobody in my life."

"Of course not," he rushed to agree, hiding anything he may have been feeling. "And you are most anxious to get home to them."

"Yes..." She looked away, biting her lip against sudden tears, and an awkward silence fell between them.

He broke it a moment later, peering suddenly off to their left. "Is that an apple tree?" He left the track, dragging Caesar along behind, and walked across the open field to the spot. An ancient, weathered tree, guarded by a low hill on one side and the tumbled ruins of a tiny stone house on the other, stretched its kinked branches upward. And sure enough, old as it was, it still bore fruit, the red globes gleaming enticingly in the sunset.

Thorsten tied Caesar to the base of the tree, then began gingerly to climb up into the branches. "Be _careful_!" Rose called fearfully to him as the old wood began creaking and groaning ominously.

He grinned back down at her from above, and continued skyward, reaching for the next branch, when it happened. Inevitably, the limb he was perched on splintered with a resounding crack. Thorsten yelled in surprise, grabbing wildly for a secure handhold – but it was too late. He came hurtling down at least ten feet, even as Rose ineffectually lunged forward, missing him by inches – and as he landed, his head banged against one of the scattered rocks from the old house with a crack as loud as the breaking branch, and he lay sprawled on the ground, utterly still.

* * *

 **First Responder**

 _"THORSTEN!"_ Rose's scream echoed off the tumbled walls of the ruined house as she completed her ineffectual lunge, landing on her knees beside his terrifyingly still body. _PLEASE let him be alive_. She shook his shoulders, yelling his name (a hair below the previous scream) like she'd learned to do in that first aid class, but there was no response. She'd never gotten the hang of feeling for a pulse at neck or wrist, so she simply put her ear on his chest, holding her breath – and sobbed in relief when she both heard a strong heartbeat, and a moment later, saw and felt his chest rise. He was breathing.

But still not moving. She tilted his head to check for injuries, and saw the reason why. The rock he'd bashed his head on was covered with blood, and it was still seeping out of the gash on his scalp, a couple of inches above and behind one ear.

Forcing herself to stay calm and breathe, she grabbed the knife at his belt and attacked her own white skirt, grimacing at the mental image of a thousand trite movie heroines doing the same thing, and ripped off several inches around the hem – and then another strip. She folded one into a pad, placed it on the wound, and pressed it in place with her hand. Time to put her OCD to good use, for once: she counted her own breaths until she reached two hundred, then carefully lifted a corner of the pad. The red was still seeping, but a little more slowly, so she pressed again and continued till she reached five hundred. That time the bleeding had stopped, and for a moment, she almost let the light-headed relief swamp her vision. Leaving that soiled pad in place for a moment, she quickly folded the other strip, then hacked off one more from her skirt, leaving it just below her knees. Then she carefully pulled the first pad completely off the wound and quickly replaced it with the new one, and finally wrapped the last strip around his head to hold the pad in place, tying the ends securely.

That wound taken care of as best she could, she looked the rest of him over, carefully feeling along his arms and legs, but found no obvious signs of a break. She couldn't check his spine, though, but after a moment's terrified thought, she just put it out of her mind. If his back was broken, there wasn't a damn thing she or anybody else could do about it. _What are you going to do, Rose, call for an ambulance?_ She gave a hysterical giggle, then clamped down, and made herself move on.

She tried again to wake him, but he remained out cold. Looking around at last, she saw the sun was truly setting now; they would have had to stop for the night soon, anyway. But a night out here in the open under that blasted tree wouldn't do him any good, no matter _how_ warm it was – and the June nights _had_ been very pleasant.

She certainly wasn't going to get him very far, but the ruined house was only a few yards away. A quick inspection proved that it wasn't going to provide much shelter with half the roof caved in, but it was still better than nothing. She got her arms under his shoulders, supporting his head with one elbow, and heaved.

Nothing. He was too heavy for her to drag, even.

Rose sat on her heels, stifling sobs of frustration and fear with the back of one hand. And then her eyes fell on faithful Caesar, still tied to the trunk of the tree, stripping the bark off with his teeth and munching contentedly.

Scooping up a windfallen apple from the ground nearby, she cut the rotten part off with Thorsten's knife, and walked up to the donkey to offer it to him. He accepted it greedily, showing his appreciation with white teeth, as she scratched his forehead. "Caesar, little buddy... I need your help," she pleaded.

She pulled the rope out of the pannier, along with the heavy blankets, then stopped to plan how she was going to accomplish this little maneuver. The panniers would have to stay on the donkey, so she could attach the rope to something. Rolling Thorsten to his side briefly, she spread one of the blankets underneath him as best she could, and then tied the rope around his chest and the blanket combined, under his arms, the end coming up from under his back and alongside his head.

Untying Caesar, she led him over to the right spot, pointing his nose in the direction of the house, and tied the rope to the pannier straps, looping it also around the donkey's chest to take the strain off the thin leather pieces. Then she lifted Thorsten's head carefully off the ground, having no other way to support it, and clucked to Caesar, hoping against hope that he'd cooperate.

He did. Starting forward, he stopped, confused at the extra weight, then continued at her encouragement. Slowly, in fits and starts, together they dragged the unconscious man across the grass and into the house. How she would have managed if Caesar had balked at the door, she had no idea, but he didn't – perhaps remembering a shed he'd once lived in. There was just enough room to get Thorsten inside the door and under the existing roof, Rose tugging him the last few inches on the blanket.

Then she untied everything, took the panniers off Caesar, and took him back outside to stake him out on the grass like Thorsten had been doing each evening; tying one end of the long rope to the tree and letting him graze in a large circle at the other end.

There was a stream a few dozen yards away; she took their water bags down and filled them, bringing them back to the little hut just as the last streaks of sunset were dying in the west. Caesar had proven amazingly adept at drinking from a stream of water shot from the bag; she gave him a drink now, and then went back to the house.

Suddenly exhausted; mentally, physically, and emotionally, she couldn't even be bothered to scrounge a bite of supper out of their packs, let alone struggle to light a campfire as he'd been teaching her to do. She draped another blanket over Thorsten, then wrapped herself up in the last one, snuggled up close to his unresponsive side for warmth, and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

 **Alim and Alsu**

Rose woke abruptly to the sound of Caesar braying outside, and groggily sat up. The morning sun pouring through the doorway showed she'd slept all night. Suddenly remembering, she twisted around to check Thorsten, but he was still lying exactly as he'd been the night before, no change – but she could see color in his face this morning.

She reached a hand to see if she could wake him, when suddenly the reason for Caesar's noise burst into her brain: a man's voice, talking soothingly to the donkey. And it was coming closer to the hut.

She sprang to her feet, looking around wildly – and spied the handle of the long knife Thorsten had bought at the market in Caffa, sticking out from the nearest pannier. She grabbed it and planted her feet apart, holding it out like a sword pointed at the doorless entry a yard away, her heart in her throat, and waited.

Whoever it was, he paused a few feet away and called out, but she kept silent. The man slowly walked up to the door, appearing at the frame – and jerked back at the sight of her knife. They stared at each other a moment, wide-eyed, each as startled as the other.

He was ancient. And tiny. Shorter and skinnier than she was. But he was also carrying a scythe, holding the long handle slanted in front of him like a weapon, and he looked as tough as old leather.

He caught sight of Thorsten lying silent and still behind her, then glanced around as if to make sure there was only the two of them. Then he started speaking to her, and she'd never wished so hard for anything as she did at that moment, that she understood what he was saying. But then he carefully leaned over and dropped his scythe on the ground, and even nudged it towards her with his toe, while making reassuring motions with his hands.

The point of her knife slowly sank in her trembling hands, then tears were dripping uncontrollably down her cheeks. The old man smiled at her, almost toothless, and gingerly walked towards Thorsten, motioning between himself and the man on the ground. Rose nodded, and turned to watch him as he creaked slowly to his knees and checked Thorsten out carefully.

When he climbed slowly back to his feet, joints popping, he tried to tell her something, but obviously she didn't understand. So he went back to hand semaphore, conveying somehow that it was OK, he was going to help them. He walked out the door, reached (grunting softly) for the scythe, but then just leaned it against the wall inside the door, where she could get it. Then he grinned at her again, motioned "stay put", and he was gone.

Rose ran the two steps to the doorway on shaking legs, leaning against the frame to watch the old man shuffle across the grass and up the path over the hill. He was out of sight in minutes.

Not knowing what else to do, she went back to Thorsten's side, but there was no change, so she went out to Caesar, taking a water bag with her. The donkey was grateful for the drink, and she stayed with him for a few minutes, stroking his neck and thanking him for helping her the night before. He'd apparently cleaned up all the windfall apples he could reach; she really should have policed the yard before staking him out. She hoped he'd be all right, but then, donkeys did have iron constitutions – or so she'd been told.

A strange rattling sound suddenly brought her out of her reverie, and she whirled back to the hill to see a very odd sight. The old man was back, dragging along a ramshackle little two-wheeled wooden cart behind him, while an equally ancient old woman, albeit even tinier, was incongruously pushing it from behind. They rattled into the yard and stopped near the hut, then both of them hobbled over to Rose, yammering to each other and to her. The old lady seemed as cheerful and friendly as her supposed husband, and she peered kindly up into Rose's face, then patted her hand soothingly.

The old man was trying to tell her something, pointing here and there. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," she replied, helplessly. So he took her by the hand and pulled her to the cart. Then he pointed back to Caesar, then the cart, then inside the hut to Thorsten, bent his arms as if carrying a baby, and finally mimed a roof.

"Oh!" Catching on, she nodded, and he grinned so infectiously she couldn't help but smile back. Rose ran to untie Caesar and led him to the cart, where the old man took over, hitching the little donkey up to it.

Getting Thorsten out to the cart was a _little_ easier with three humans, even if none of them were very strong. Still, they made it out, Rose at his shoulders and each of the others with a leg. She started to turn sideways to put Thorsten in the back of the cart alone, but the old man stopped her and somehow conveyed that she should get in, too, to hold him steady, and so she did, cradling his head and torso while his feet hung over the other side. The couple resumed their places as if it had been rehearsed, and the little caravan started their journey, the old man leading a willing Caesar while the old woman walked behind, helping to push once more.

Rose hoped for her sake that it wasn't far, and it wasn't. About a quarter of a mile over the low hill, they came to an ancient stone farmhouse, chickens clucking in the yard and pigs grunting from the pen at the far end. Pulling right up to the door, the woman called out something to the old man and hobbled quickly inside for a couple of minutes while they waited. When she came back out, they reversed the previous maneuver and managed to carry Thorsten inside the house and to a pallet she'd apparently just arranged by the fireplace. Stretched out once more on the blankets, Thorsten almost looked like he was simply asleep.

The man went outside to see to Caesar and the cart, while his wife fussed about, bringing some water and a cloth so Rose could bathe Thorsten's face – and her own, and shortly handing her a bowl of some thin but delicious soup, chattering and clucking like a stereotypical grandmother all the while. Helpless to do anything else, Rose sat on the floor by Thorsten's side and watched, feeling all the tension of the past night – no, the past weeks – drain slowly away. She was still worried for her companion, but felt like maybe things would work out anyway.

The door opened again and the old man began bringing their panniers inside – he'd apparently taken Caesar and the cart back for all their stuff. She smiled a thank you and he waved it off. Rose leaned back against the wall, letting her mind just drift.

And then, so softly she almost didn't hear it, Thorsten moaned. Her eyes flew open with a gasp, and she reached for his shoulder, breathlessly saying his name.

He started to turn his head on the pallet – and winced, groaning louder as he rolled over the wound. He lifted a hand to his head, and finally, _finally_ , his eyes cracked open. They slowly focused on her face leaning over him, and then his brow furrowed.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwww," was all he said.

^..^

A short time later, explanations duly made, and a quick examination and interrogation revealing no further injuries save a massive but diffuse bruise on his back where he'd landed, Thorsten's head and shoulders were propped up on his pack, and he was weakly speaking with the couple. He wasn't familiar with their precise dialect, but at least communication was established – and so were their hosts' names: Alim and Alsu. They had apparently lived in the old house for many years, but if they had ever had any family, there was no sign now.

Then Alsu, the wife, brought Rose another bowl of soup for Thorsten, putting it and a spoon in her hands with a smile and another rattled-off sentence. She hobbled off, shooing Alim away as well, and Rose turned to the makeshift bed just in time to see a pained look cross the invalid's face. "Owwwwww!" he complained, too quiet for the others to hear, but heartfelt.

"What?" she asked, concerned. What new pain was this?

Thorsten slowly turned his head and looked at her, his face flushed. "She called me your father," he finally admitted.

Rose couldn't help it. She cracked up, although she tried to do it quietly, and then tried hard to stifle it at the offended look on his face. She scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it carefully out. "Come on, papa," she coaxed, teasing. "You need to eat."

His eyes narrowed, and he positively _glared_ at her. His mouth stayed firmly shut against the soup.

Amusement warred with shame, which slowly won. The spoon sank down into the bowl again, and she bit her lips, caught between blushing and giggling.

"I'm sorry," she managed to choke out. "Please forgive me."

Teeth clenched like a toddler resisting the spoon, he rasped out, "As long as you promise _never_ to call me that again."

"I promise." She took a couple of breaths to get rid of the last of the humor, then told him quietly, looking down at the soup rather than his face, "You're my savior, and my friend – but you're _definitely_ not a father figure."

His glare slowly softened, and then he finally opened his mouth and let her feed him.

* * *

 **Bender**

It took Thorsten several days to recover enough to travel, but when they left the old farmstead, it was in the cart. Alim tried to give it to them, saying he had no use for it without any animals to pull it, but Thorsten insisted on leaving them a few coins to pay for the cart and the food they'd eaten. Alsu, all rough country graciousness and practicality, shushed her husband's protests and whisked the coins away to a pocket.

Rose was surprised at how fast they started moving then. Once he got going, Caesar willingly trotted along for hours, steadily eating the miles up. His humans lavished praise and apples on the little donkey, and that was all he asked for.

They stopped for two nights in Odessa on the coast, relishing the luxury of sleeping indoors on real beds, and each taking a luxurious hot bath. Thorsten prowled the market through the day in between, gathering the news. The two armies were headed for a clash to their west, somewhere along the River Pruth in Moldavia. Tsar Peter had joined his army from a different route, even bringing along his beloved Tsarina, and was pushing them south, apparently planning to cross the Danube. The mighty Turkish army, however, might beat him across that landmark on their way north. The market was abuzz over the size and magnificence of the Grand Vizier's forces, combining the legendary red-booted Janissaries, hereditary soldiers and utterly-loyal guardians of the Sultan, with the feared Tatar horsemen, twenty thousand strong, led by Khan Giray himself. Indeed, it was said that the commander of the Turks, Mehemet Baltadji, the Grand Vizier and the most powerful man in the Ottoman Empire (even over the pampered, ineffectual Sultan – as long as he stayed in the good graces of the Janissaries), was traveling in such glittering state as to make it more of a royal procession than an army off to war. But make no mistake, the war was coming, and the size of the forces arrayed against Peter was said to outnumber his own by four to one. No one believed it could be anything less than annihilation for the Russian army and its Tsar, and even Thorsten looked askance at Rose for her prediction of how it would actually turn out: a mere peace treaty on very light terms for the Russians.

"Nevertheless," he told her that evening after relaying all he'd learned, "I still see the sense in getting Charles out to the action, if only to strengthen Sweden's hand in the future. He'll need to move swiftly after it's done, and head back north to home. He's been away far too long. Sweden needs her king where she can see him, and there's many more enemies snapping at her borders than just Russia. The Council has had to deal with all that for too long alone."

(Rose thought that perhaps it was time for Sweden to do away with the kingship altogether, and move to a more democratic government with that Council in official charge, but kept that idea to herself. She wasn't at all sure how royalist her companion really was.)

At any rate, they set out the following morning on the last leg of their journey, and pulled into Bender three days later, on a beautiful summer afternoon in early July. They'd missed their target of the end of June, but not by much. Thorsten directed Caesar across the arched stone bridge spanning the Dneister, then turned his head north again, trotting through the streets and around the impressive Turkish fortress, then down to the riverside again. There, under the spreading fruit trees of an old orchard, was the current temporary resting place of King Charles XII of Sweden, self-styled Carolus Rex.

It had begun as a line of tents donated by their Turkish hosts, but in the two years since Charles's arrival, a new little town had begun to take shape. The tents were still there, but small houses and shops had been set up around them, and a large, two-story, balconied residence was being built at one end of the open center for the King.

It was still a military camp, however, complete with armed guards around the perimeter and an entry gate. Thorsten pulled the cart to a halt before the gate, and was recognized by the guard on duty, who gave him a friendly smile, and the two began conversing in Swedish. The guard gestured towards Rose at one point, and Thorsten told him her name – just her first name, though – and didn't actually introduce them to each other, so she stayed quiet.

Finally another, older soldier in a fancier uniform came out to greet Thorsten, ignoring Rose. He turned after a moment and gestured to the far ends of the camp, and Thorsten nodded. Then the wooden gate was raised, and Thorsten clicked to Caesar again, and they entered what was becoming known as New Bender.

"We've been given permission to use one of the old tents," he told her. "The soldiers are moving into barracks now." Indeed, somewhat ramshackle long buildings were being built around the edges of the camp on all sides, the garrison's new quarters.

"What were you saying about me?" she wanted to know.

He cleared his throat, looking a little embarrassed. "I told him that you are British, and that I'd found you in Caffa. I didn't go into any more detail than that. Rose... I'm letting them have the impression that you... belong to me. It's an explanation that soldiers will comprehend, and it will give you some protection. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Yes. I understand. And thank you."

They pulled up in front of one of the Turkish tents, and Thorsten (slightly obviously) gave Rose a hand down from the little cart, which she didn't need, and took her arm possessively as they walked inside, giving the curious eyes and wagging tongues around them something to work with. It was sparsely furnished, with a few cots on one side, and a table and chairs on the other. A stack of dishes, a cooking pot, and a water jug stood on the table, scrubbed and ready for use. They brought the few things they'd collected on the journey inside, and then Thorsten took Caesar and the cart off in search of the stables, while Rose took the water jug from the table and found the community well. The people in the camp – mostly soldiers – seemed friendly enough, greeting her in Swedish with broad, interested smiles; she merely smiled shyly back and nodded, continuing on her way.

Back inside the tent, she gave herself a quick rag wash, saving most of the water for Thorsten. He came back just as two young soldiers arrived, carrying a medium-sized trunk between them, which Thorsten gladly took possession of. It proved to be his own, left behind when he'd headed towards Azov months before, and contained mostly clothes, several cuts above the rough homespun he'd been wearing. He quickly washed up and changed clothes, surprising Rose by putting on a uniform, just as spiffy as the ones she'd seen outside.

"I didn't think you were in the Army," she said, confused.

"It's complicated," he grinned back. "I'm not in the ranks any more, but because of my previous record, and as an attache, I'm both entitled to wear a uniform, and it makes dealing with certain others easier. Including Carolus." She noticed he'd slipped back into referring to the king by that name, rather than Charles. "And speaking of which... I must go and present myself and my information to the King. I may be gone for some time. Will you be all right here for a few hours?"

"I'm not coming, too?"

"No. Not at this time. I think it best if we... try to convince him on 'normal' grounds at first. We'll keep your story in reserve. All right?"

She didn't answer that right away, not sure how she felt about it. "And how will you explain me to him?"

"The same way as the others, to start with. Rose... Please trust me. Trust my knowledge of Carolus, and of the situation. He won't be convinced by you, but by military expediency. That is how we must present it."

She slowly nodded. "All right. Just... we don't have a whole lot of time."

"I'm aware of that," he replied grimly, then repeated, "Will you be all right here?"

She was more certain of that. "I'll be fine. I won't wander off."

Actually, she was tired, and glad of the chance to sit on a solid chair that wasn't jolting over ruts and rocks at every instant. She pulled said chair to a spot just inside the open tent flaps, so she could peer out and watch the busy camp without attracting attention, and simply sat and enjoyed the sweet July afternoon.

^..^

The sun had nearly set before Thorsten returned, tight-lipped and tired. He merely shook his head at Rose, wordlessly. It hadn't worked.

He'd also brought back two plates of hot food from the kitchens. "We were invited to dine with Carolus – both of us, but I declined, claiming exhaustion. I told him we'd be happy to join him tomorrow, instead."

They sat across the table from each other and ate in silence in the candlelight, Rose letting him be. She could see he was frustrated at his failure to convince the King to join the fight. Finally, she asked softly, "What did he say?"

He shook his head. "Same thing as before. He was invited to go along earlier, by the Grand Vizier himself, but refused, on the grounds that he cannot join an army as a guest that he does not command – especially one commanded by someone he considers of lower rank than himself."

Rose considered that for a moment, then asked, "Is he always that... self-confident?" Obviously not the words she really wanted to use, but perhaps more diplomatic for a king.

Thorsten caught the undercurrent, anyway, and grinned at her for the first time since his return. "You have no idea. I've heard his willpower described as 'nearly supernatural'. He never admits to any pain or weakness. Stoic, brave, brilliant, and nearly suicidally fatalistic."

Rose had been listening underneath, too. "You admire him."

"Who doesn't? Who wouldn't? One cannot help themself. Even his enemies admire him. Even soldiers of the opposing army would switch sides and follow him through hell, if they could." He shrugged it off, mopping the last of the gravy off his plate with the last bite of bread and pushing the plate aside.

He studied her for a moment as she finished, too. "Rose..." he began tentatively. "I think we should consider just going to the west ourselves. We need to find the time jumper and get it back. Then we can see what we can do – "

Rose had started shaking her head. "We can't. Thorsten... it has to be Charles. If he's not there, to change history, then... it's all for nothing. If the moment passes, and things go the way they did – will – in the Alpha universe, then my entire timeline will never come about. And I... I'll disappear, Thorsten. I have a deadline."

"Disappear? What do you mean? You'll leave?"

"No, not leave. Disappear. Vanish from the spot, like a ghost, like I'd never been born. I never WILL have been born."

His eyes were huge, unwilling to accept this new revelation. "How can you be sure of that?"

"We saw it happen, with one of the other Roses. She failed, and her timeline disappeared, and she did, too. Even her backpack, that she'd left behind, just... faded to nothing."

He stared at her, shocked. She pushed aside her own plate, now, and reached across the table for his hands. "Thorsten... we _have_ to get Charles to the Pruth. We don't have any other choice. The time jumper can wait."

"What is this thing, this... _time jumper?_ Why must you get me to the Pruth?" A new voice, smooth but commanding, with a heavy Swedish accent, sounded from the tent flaps. Startled, they swiveled around and stared at the intruder, Thorsten leaping to his feet an instant later, knocking over his own chair in his haste.

"My lord," he choked out, and bowed.

It was King Charles.

* * *

 **To Convince a King**

Rose leapt to her own feet (managing not to crash her chair), and tried an unsteady curtsey before King Charles. The monarch ignored her, stepping close to Thorsten to pierce him with a stare from his commanding height – he was at least five inches taller than Rose's companion.

"Well, Sjovold?" he demanded, radiating power even with his disdainful use of Thorsten's bare last name.

Thorsten licked his lips, gathering his wits. "Ers majestät – " he began, but was cut off by Charles.

"In English, Sjovold." He waved an imperious hand in Rose's direction. "You speak to her of this thing in English, but do not speak to me of it in Swedish. So speak English to me, and perhaps I will hear the truth this time."

Thorsten was trapped. "Your majesty," he began again, "it is a device... for traveling through time."

"What? You speak nonsense."

Thorsten motioned towards Rose. "This is Miss Rose Tyler, your majesty, from England. England in the year – " He glanced over at Rose, having forgotten what she'd said.

"Twenty-sixteen," she whispered. She didn't trust her voice any further.

"Two thousand sixteen," he continued. "She's come back in time to correct a mistake in her history, one that caused her past – our future – to go horribly wrong."

"A mistake that requires my presence at the Pruth?" Charles was quick on the uptake, Rose had to give him that.

"Yes, your majesty. Without your presence there to turn the tide, Peter will get away, and all your planning come to naught."

Charles dismissed that, chewing over the previous revelation. "A device... for traveling through time? Into the past? Show it to me!"

"Your majesty... we do not have it. It was stolen from her."

"By whom?"

Thorsten glanced over to Rose, and she found her voice at last. "Khan Giray has it, your majesty."

"Giray? He rides with the Turkish army, does he not? Then HE has it, and is using it now?"

Rose shook her head. "He doesn't know how to use it, your majesty."

"In fact," Thorsten took it up. "He doesn't even know what it is."

Charles speared him with a sudden sharp glance. "And what of this Stygga Vargen, this spy called Bad Wolf? Does HE know?"

Caught off guard, Thorsten glanced again at Rose. "No, your majesty," he replied. "The three of us are the only ones in the world who know what this device does."

Curious, Charles asked, "What does it look like?"

Thorsten shrugged. "I've never seen it." He turned to Rose again, drawing Charles's eyes to her fully for the first time.

Rose gulped as the king turned to stare at her, his dark blue eyes seeming to pierce her soul. "It... it looks a little like a large, metal-cased wristwatch, your majesty." When that word seemed to mean nothing to either man, she continued, rubbing two fingers over her other wrist to demonstrate. "Kind of like a pocket watch, attached to a silver chain-link strap around your wrist." Apparently pocket watches, unlike wristwatches, had already been invented, since this further explanation satisfied them.

Charles took a step back, staring into some middle distance over the table. "To go back into history, and change it," he murmured, apparently to himself. "To change how things happened. I could use this device to return to Poltava." He turned back to Thorsten. "I was wounded at Poltava, and could not lead my men. That is why they lost, in such a crushing defeat, and I had to flee here. But if I could go back and lead them properly, we would have won that battle, and crushed Peter even then!"

Rose's jaw dropped, mirroring the feeling her stomach was sending. This was NOT what she had in mind!

Charles still ignored her, though, making up his royal mind with a snap of his fingers, his eyes aglow with possibilities. "I will indeed travel to the Pruth, Sjovold. But not to this battle. I will go to find the Khan, and retrieve this... this time jumper, for myself. I will put it to much better use than the Turks!" Deigning to be friendly, now, he clapped Thorsten on one shoulder. "We leave at dawn!"

He turned to sweep out of the tent, but Rose spoke up before he could take a step. "Your majesty!" Turning back to raise an imperious eye at this upstart woman, he didn't reply. But now she'd gotten her back up. "You're forgetting something, your majesty. I am the only person in the world who knows how to use the time jumper. Try to use it yourself without knowing how, and who knows when or where you'll end up – the bottom of the ocean, or on the moon, even!"

The king swiveled back around on his heel, slowly, giving Rose a once-over. "What do you want?"

The question struck her heart. "I just want to go home," she managed. "Back to my own time and place."

He considered a moment, then nodded. "Very well, Miss – "

"Tyler," supplied Thorsten.

"Miss Tyler," Charles continued without acknowledging him. "I will strike a treaty with you. Teach me how to use it, and the first thing I shall do is to take you home, before I travel anywhere else. Agreed?"

Now she was trapped. She couldn't see any way out. Slowly, Rose nodded. "All right. Your majesty," she added as an afterthought, dipping her head in what she hoped was an acceptable show of respect.

Charles gave her a sharp nod, and swirled about, sailing out through the tent flaps. They heard him calling to someone, then shortly a general hubbub started; apparently he'd given orders to leave camp at dawn.

Neither Rose nor Thorsten looked at each other, each lost in their own churning thoughts.

"Well," Rose sighed at length. "I guess we'd better get some sleep while we can." She turned away and moved slowly over to one of the cots, the one on the end, her heart heavy.

"Rose..." Thorsten whispered hoarsely, stopping her. She looked over her shoulder at him, and saw him focus on the tent wall behind her, then reach towards the candles. To mask their shadows from any watchers outside, she realized, barely catching a glimpse of her outline on the canvas wall as he put out the flames, leaving only the softest reflected torch- and moonlight coming in from outside through the gap between the tent flaps.

She turned around to face him as he walked quietly over to her in the gloom, startling her by coming much closer than she expected. He leaned over, putting his lips a bare inch from her ear, and whispered hesitantly, with many long pauses, so softly she barely heard him even from that tiny distance.

"I risk treason to say this. But... I am... uneasy... at the thought of... _anyone_ blundering through history." He couldn't bring himself to put a name to it, she realized, and nodded her understanding. "You have returned to make a single specific change," he went on, a bit stronger now. "But for anyone else... God only knows what havoc might be wrought." He pulled his head back to gaze into her eyes, seeking understanding, and she nodded again, her own worst fears from the interview just finished finding voice in his whisper.

"I give you my word, then... that I will do... _whatever I can._.. to put the jumper into your hands alone," he promised, his voice low and intense. Suddenly seeming to realize how close their faces were, his eyes flickered down to her lips, and he made the tiniest movement towards them. And then caught himself with a sharp intake of breath. "So that you can return home, to whoever is waiting for you." The noise from his throat might have been a quiet sob. "And I hope he realizes what he's got."

Thorsten abruptly wheeled about, striding to the tent flaps and outside before she could blink. The sudden hole in the air where he'd just stood, inches away from her body, felt as cold and empty as outer space. Without warning, her knees collapsed, and she sat down hard on the cot behind her, shaking.

But she couldn't have said why.

* * *

 **On The Road, _Again_**

"Rose... _Rose_!" Thorsten's call woke her up from a deep sleep. He was standing a couple of feet away from the bed, already – or was it still? – dressed in his uniform. "It's time to get up, Rose, we're leaving in a half hour," he told her.

"All right," she yawned. She groggily pulled herself out of the cot and pulled on her boots, washed her face, and put her blue apron on over the old blouse and new skirt she'd found in Odessa to replace the one she'd ripped up for his bandage. When she came out the tent flaps, though, she got a surprise: instead of their little cart, two chestnut horses were tied up to the post.

"I'm sorry," Thorsten told her, "There's no time for the cart this journey – Caesar would never keep up with the cavalry. You'll have to learn to ride quickly, on the road."

"Is _everyone_ going?" It certainly seemed as if the entire camp-cum-village was up and about.

Thorsten nodded. "Two hundred horsemen – and us – to escort the king; the rest of the soldiers follow behind later today. Everyone else will likely wait to see what will happen from there." He looked at her and grinned. "You're probably the only one who got much sleep last night."

She stepped over to the mare's heads, tentatively rubbing their noses, giving herself a moment to get used to the idea.. "Wait a minute. How am I supposed to ride a horse with this long skirt?"

Thorsten cleared his throat apologetically behind her. When she turned, he was holding out a small pile of folded clothes – what looked suspiciously like a uniform. "I hope you don't mind wearing pants. It's only for the journey."

She stared, then laughed helplessly. "Thorsten, fashion has changed in three hundred years." She stepped back and took the clothes from him. "I wear pants every day." And walked back inside the tent to change, leaving him to ponder that concept.

The uniform was a surprisingly good fit; she didn't want to know how he'd managed that or where he'd gotten it, even. It looked used, but it was clean. There was even a small cap, and a leather belt for the trousers – but no rank or unit insignia. "Do I need to start saluting officers?" she asked impishly as she went back out.

Thorsten, giving the tack a final once-over and tightening the girths, glanced over at her – and did a classic double-take. His mouth quirked with suppressed mirth. "If you're not careful, some of these men may start saluting you!"

Pleased at the compliment, and happy that they were apparently past whatever had happened last night, she merely grinned.

She handed him her other clothes, rolled up around her little-used pretty shoes, and he packed them into her saddlebag, then helped her mount, shortening the stirrups to the right length and getting her settled in proper position. Then he looked up at her seriously. "I'm thinking it might be a good idea for me to lead your horse, at least at first, to let you get used to just staying on and not have to worry about controlling her. I picked the best one I could find – she's old and steady, and unlikely to bolt or bounce you around as much as a younger horse."

Rose smiled, a bit shy again, appreciative of the care he'd always taken of her. She touched his shoulder, "Thank you," and his eyes twinkled in response.

^..^

A few hours later, she wasn't smiling. She was groaning. Riding for hours at a stretch at a fast trot your first time out was NOT a good introduction to horseback riding! Rose wasn't sure she'd EVER be able to walk again.

The few times Charles had called a brief halt, she'd literally fallen out of the saddle into Thorsten's arms, and he'd half-carried her over to a blanket to rest on the ground for the few minutes allowed, then fetched her some water and the trail rations being passed around. She drained the water, but couldn't manage the food, so he wrapped it up in a clean handkerchief and showed her how to tuck it under her belt for later. His hand rested on her hair for a moment. "I'm so sorry. I should have looked harder for a horsecart."

Rose shook her head. "I'll survive. People have. And if this is what it takes to fix things, then..."

She didn't ask for the reins all day, deciding that was just too much. There wasn't much saddle to hang on to, and her fingers got as stiff as her legs clinging to the thick leather leading edge. Their mounts were apparently good friends and stablemates; when Thorsten let the lead lengthen a bit, Rose's mare caught up with his and they naturally trotted side by side in the same rhythm. Thorsten offered his arm to Rose at one point, and the extra support helped her get through the rest of that day.

The king's troop made an astonishing sixty miles that first day, calling a halt well after sunset for a brief few hours. Rose just wrapped herself up in a blanket and fell instantly asleep on the hard ground, uncaring. The next morning she was so stiff and sore she could barely move, and it took all her grim determination to get back on board. Thorsten was not the only one who took note; the squad they rode with, a short distance behind the king, took it upon themselves to take extra care of this brave, determined – and pretty – young woman in their midst, offering up an extra blanket to pad her saddle and sharing sweet raisins. She blinked back unexpected tears at their kindness and goodwill, and her sunrise smile was payment enough.

Early that second afternoon found the Swedes nearing the River Pruth, wondering which way to turn. Charles abruptly held his hand up to signal a halt, and Thorsten, peering ahead, saw the reason: a rider, spurring hard, was galloping towards them from ahead. It turned out to be a messenger riding to the King of Sweden; he pulled up in surprise when he saw the King on the road and not back in Bender.

"Wait here," Thorsten said softly, handing Rose her rein, and she awkwardly held her mare back as he spurred his forward to find out what was going on. Charles quickly read the message, and then gave Thorsten, a few paces to his side, a sharp stare. He refolded the note and handed it across to Thorsten, then spoke a few words to his lieutenants at his side. Thorsten rode back, grinning slightly, as the word filtered back through the ranks.

The long-expected battle had been joined, a few miles to the north, at a place called Stanilesti.

Thorsten fell in beside Rose as they started forward again, reaching for her rein, but she shook her head. "I can manage, I think. What does it say?" she asked nodding towards the folded note.

He opened it and read it quickly. "It's from Poniatowski – Charles's representative to the Sultan. He's been traveling with the Turkish army." Suddenly he swore under his breath, and his countenance turned black. "The Russians were surrounded yesterday, but the Janissaries refused to charge and finish it. The Russian commander sent out an emissary last night with a proposal for a peace treaty." He looked up at her, bleakly. "The negotiations are under way."

Rose felt an icy wind blow right through her, sweeping aside all thoughts of pain or exhaustion. The battle – such as it was – was already over, and the treaty was about to be signed. They might already be too late.

And suddenly, after months of living here in the past, she was almost out of time.

* * *

 **Confrontation**

King Charles and his retinue swept into the Turkish camp at Stanilesti and rode right up to the command area: a collection of ornate tents atop one of the hills, just far enough away from the action to be out of any danger. Rose only had time to register some vague impressions: apparently the Russians were surrounded, entrenched on a low promontory butting up next to the River Pruth, while the Turks, many times their number, pressed in on all sides of the wide strip of no-mans-land in between the two armies. No shots were being fired while the peace negotiations were ongoing; heavy silence hung over the two armies, the exhausted soldiers of both sides dug in to wearily await the decisions of their superiors.

Charles jumped from his horse at the entrance to the largest tent, not even waiting for the boy who ran to grab the reins, and marched regally inside without being announced. Several of his lieutenants followed behind, and Thorsten gingerly pulled Rose down from her mount and helped her past the flaps, as well.

The picture inside was one of sheer opulence, utterly at odds with the war outside. Heavy damasks and silks draped everywhere, while silver and gold glittered and gleamed. A number of men were lounging on a circle of low settees: the peace negotiations. All of them were now staring, openmouthed, at the upstart young Swedish King who had burst in upon them so rudely. The man at the center back of the circle, sitting on what could almost be termed a throne, was staring daggers, his face slowly turning purple with outrage.

A man dressed in northern attire detached himself from the ring of observers standing around the tent's margins, hurrying to Charles's side, greeting him with a low bow, then half-turning and launching into translations between his liege and the sitting circle. "Poniatowski," Thorsten identified him in a murmur in Rose's ear, then proceeded to name the others present that he knew: Mehemet Baltadji, the Grand Vizier and commander of the Turkish army sitting on the throne; the commander of the Janissaries; a couple of bearded men in dark, heavy wool uniforms which Thorsten assumed to be the Russian delegates; and Devlet Giray, Khan of the Crimean Tatars.

This last, Rose recognized immediately as the Prince who had taken her time jumper back at the slave market before rejecting herself. She stared at him for a moment out of the corner of her eye; he was still a commanding presence, even in such glittering company, lean and sharp as the blade he carried.

Then, her eyes were drawn to the man standing at attention behind the Khan's divan, who was staring fixedly at... her. His black eyes glittered, while a strange, tiny smile played around his mouth. It took her a moment, and then she gasped, drawing Thorsten's attention.

"What?" he asked.

"That man behind the Khan. He's the slaver Captain, the one who captured me and brought me to Caffa – and gave the jumper to Giray."

Thorsten swiveled and stared back at the Captain, then dismissed him, turning back to the action. He nudged Rose's arm to bring her attention back there, too, and she tried, though her eyes kept returning of their own accord.

Charles, the time jumper apparently momentarily put aside unmentioned, was arguing with the Grand Vizier about the terms of the treaty through Poniatowski. Thorsten began whispering translations of both sides to Rose in English. Just as Jared had told her all those weeks ago, the terms as they stood were very light: Russia was to be let off with just the return of the forts they had captured recently around Azov, and the ships they had been building there (which Thorsten had just returned from observing), while the Russian troops themselves – and their leaders, including the Tsar - would be allowed to escape capture, merely marching tamely back to their own country. Charles was furiously denouncing this idea, urging the Grand Vizier to attack, ending the Russian threat for good.

"No," Thorsten reported Baltadji as saying, "I have won enough. It is against the Prophet's law to deny peace to an enemy who begs it." Charles reacted to that, but the Vizier overrode him, sternly. "I have command of the army and I will make peace where I will!"

"Then allow _me_ to do battle with _my_ men," Charles proposed, "I will win far more concessions, if that is what you are after."

"No," was the final reply. "I have spoken. This is the will of Allah. You will not attack." The Vizier stared haughtily down the carpet at the Swedish King, his match in the "regal disdain" department, Rose decided.

There was a tense silence, then Charles inclined his head a fraction of an inch. "As you will," he said stiffly. "I have better things to do." He swiveled around to face Giray. "Mighty Khan, may I have a word with you in private? We have something to discuss."

Giray was as shocked by the impolite request as anyone else in the room, but covered it smoothly. "By your leave, Vizier?" Baltadji nodded, glad to be rid of the rude, intrusive king, and Giray rose from his couch and sailed out of the tent side-by-side with Charles, neither giving the other precedence. Thorsten, Rose, and Charles's lieutenants sprang to one side and bowed – Rose again returning the glance of the slaver Captain who had followed in the Khan's wake.

Giray led the King to his own tent, slightly smaller than the Vizier's, but only a little less opulent, the door guarded on the outside by a pair of hulking soldiers wielding long, curved swords, bare in their hands. Charles turned and motioned Thorsten and Rose in, but told the lieutenants and Poniatowski, to his surprise, to wait outside. The slaver Captain ignored him, walking past him into the tent, so there were five.

Giray settled himself into a carved wooden chair in this "front room", partitioned from the rest of the huge tent by hanging carpets, and graciously motioned Charles into another, facing. The Captain took up his stance behind his Khan once more. Charles said to Thorsten, "Your turn to translate," so he left Rose standing by the door and went to stand behind his King's chair, mirroring the Captain. Rose found a small stool near the door and sank onto it, grateful to be off her feet and out of the saddle.

"What is it you wish of me?" the Khan asked in his own Tatar language. Thorsten, glancing at Rose, began translating into English rather than Swedish. Charles seemed not even to notice, switching also to English without turning a hair.

"It is a matter of property, Lord Khan," he began. "Her property, to be precise." He waved a hand in Rose's direction, and she immediately wished he hadn't, as every eye fastened on her. She shifted uneasily on her stool.

The Khan dismissed her with a glance, as he had done before. "I do not understand."

"There is an item which belongs to her, which is now in your possession, I believe," Charles elaborated, trying to conceal his eagerness behind the polite language and failing.

"I do not know this woman. How could anything of hers be in my possession?"

"Actually, Lord Khan," Rose broke in, "It was stolen from me by the man behind you."

Giray's eyes had not even flickered, giving the impression that he did not even hear the voice of a mere woman. When Thorsten translated it, he raised an eyebrow at Charles, then lifted a hand, signaling the Captain.

Rose flushed at the slight, then caught the eyes of the Captain, his brow furrowed. He'd forgotten. She used the same motion she had before with Thorsten and Charles, rubbing two fingers of her right hand over her left wrist, and saw his face clear with memory. Then he leaned over Giray's shoulder and whispered into his ear, apparently reminding the Khan of the bauble he'd acquired at the slave market.

"I still do not see," the Khan continued, even as he motioned the Captain back again without acknowledgement. "What is so important about that ugly silver decoration?" Rose wasn't sure if that was his real assessment – he'd certainly seemed interested back there in the market – or whether he was simply downplaying it to drive a harder bargain.

Charles, however, unused to the ways of Turkish haggling, blew it by leaning forward, letting his enthusiasm show. "It's more than a decoration, Lord Khan. Much more. It's the most important thing in this whole godforsaken country."

Giray's eyes glittered. "How so? What is this thing?"

Rose let her breath out in a hopeless, exasperated sigh as the Swedish King threw caution to the wind. Leaning forward more, speaking in a low voice that wouldn't carry outside the tent, he foolishly put his cards on the table. "It's a device for traveling through time, Giray. For moving through history. For _changing_ history."

Thorsten had sucked in his breath, and stopped translating. "My lord," he whispered, "do you really want – "

 _"Say it!"_ Charles snarled. He waited until Thorsten swallowed hard, then repeated what he had said in Tatar.

The Khan was bewildered, certain the translation was faulty. "I do not understand."

"I know you are as angry about this treaty as I. You have been pushing for this war as eagerly as I have been, and now... victory is slipping away. But with this device, Khan, we can return to days that have already happened, and make them go the right way! We can return to yesterday and lead the charge against the Russians here. Or we can go back to any other day, and change things. Battles lost that can be won. Voyages not made that can be made. Important messages that never made it through, given to their receivers as planned. Giray... we can _change history._ "

Thorsten had been dutifully translating, however unwillingly. He didn't look at Rose, now. For her part, she felt the jumper slipping further out of reach. Even now, the treaty could be being signed, her life could be ticking away...

Giray turned his head towards the Captain, murmuring instructions, and waved him through the hanging carpets to the back of the tent, where faint noises of items being moved about began to emerge. "He is retrieving this device, since he knows what it looks like," he said through Thorsten. Charles could barely contain his eagerness. The Khan leaned forward, finally intrigued, and began asking Charles for more details. Before the King could get too carried away, though, Rose had to break in.

"Forgive me, my lords, but you're both forgetting something. Your majesty..." He looked around at her and nodded shortly, unwillingly acknowledging their bargain. She turned to Giray. "Lord Khan," she began, adopting Charles's wording, "I'm the only one who knows how to use the – device. You need me to go _anywhere_."

For the first time, he turned and looked fully at her, taking in her appearance in the Swedish uniform, then looking sharply at her face, before murmuring something with a tiny smile lifting one corner of his thin mouth.

"Like the Greek Sybil," Thorsten translated, "we are under your tutelage."

That was likely the best she was going to get. She would have to work for her return home somehow later. She nodded her head at him, and he turned back to Charles.

Before he could speak, though, something else broke in on Rose's consciousness. The noises from the rear of the tent had stopped some time before, and all was silence. She looked at Thorsten, alarm growing in her eyes. "Thorsten," she whispered urgently, getting all their attention again.

"Shouldn't he be back by now?"

Thorsten's head whipped around towards the back wall, communicating her question to the Khan wordlessly. Giray sprang from his chair and was at the carpets in one long step, ripping open a gap between them. At his heels, the others watched as he strode into the empty room and across to a low table bearing an open chest, the contents of it spilled across the surface. He took one look at those contents, then whirled back around, shouting for his guards. None of them needed to ask why. The Captain had stolen the time jumper and escaped out the back, rolling through the gap under the free-hanging walls.

The four of them ran for the doorway, Giray continuing to shout orders at his guards and soldiers in Tatar. Charles added his voice to the confusion, yelling similarly to his own lieutenants and troops, ordering them to look for the missing man.

Thorsten and Rose simply halted together in front of the tent, their eyes frantically scanning the camp, looking for the Captain. It was Rose who spotted him in the spreading confusion, long minutes later. He had made it all the way to the front lines, and was attempting to sneak across the no-mans-land to the Russians.

"Thorsten!" she croaked to get his attention, pointing to the tiny figure in the distance.

Thorsten took one look and went absolutely, ice-cold still. "Bad Wolf..." he rasped, his voice strangled – then suddenly he yelled to Charles at the top of his lungs, sounding like the wrath of God himself. "CAROLUS! HAN ÄR STYGGA VARGEN!"

Rose gasped as the name dawned. The slaver Captain was the Russian spy he'd been tracking.

Charles whipped around, following the line of Thorsten's pointing arm, and spied the quarry. Shouting to his men, he leapt for his horse, whirled the animal around, and sent him at an instant gallop down the hill through the camp. The two hundred men who'd come with them from Bender mounted in a moment and thundered after him, swords drawn.

Khan Giray also followed a moment later, not understanding the Swedish, but spying the man he had trusted headed over to the enemy camp. He also ran for his own horse, saddled and waiting nearby, and yelled for his mounted soldiers.

Thorsten unfroze and mounted up with all the others, yelling over his shoulder to Rose, "Stay there!", and he was gone, too, pounding down the hill.

Rose stood alone, utterly frozen, unable to move, barely breathing, her hands held to her cheeks, staring horrified at the unfolding drama.

As Charles and his men reached the front Turkish lines, the Khan and the Tatars on their heels, the soldiers sitting there rose to their feet, their mouths dropping at the sight. Some of them whirled around to see what the fuss was about, and spied the figure slipping towards the enemy. Rifles were yanked up and fired, but none of them hit the Captain/spy, who simply began running flat out, no longer sneaking, desperately trying to reach the Russian lines.

Those Russians, of course, jerked their heads up at the commotion, and began returning fire. Too late. The combined Swedish and Tatar cavalry came roaring across the gap and crashed into the Russian camp at full speed, trailing the Turkish infantry behind, as they scooped up their weapons and followed the horses without orders.

At that moment, a Turkish cannon crashed, sending its fiery ball screaming across the gap and into the Russian lines.

The Second Battle of Stanilesti – which never occurred in the Alpha universe – had begun.

* * *

 **Longing**

Rose was still standing frozen in place atop the hill, watching the distant battle. The Russian encampment had been quickly overrun by cavalry and infantry, turning it into a slaughter. Not even the Grand Vizier, barreling out of his tent in horror with the Russian emissaries trailing behind, could stop the carnage once the bloodlust had taken hold.

Someone spoke in her ear, then touched her arm. She didn't move. The person took a gentle hold of her arm, then, and pulled her around slightly, dragging her eyes away from the horrific sight. It was one of the guards of the Khan's tent, gazing at her soulfully. He motioned her towards the tent flaps, then reached across her to take hold of her other arm, turning her around completely, and helped her totter inside on numb, wooden feet. She stood for a moment, swaying, then moved to the Khan's chair and sat heavily on it, staring down at her folded hands in her lap, unable to move or think.

An age slowly passed – or maybe it was only an hour. The distant sounds of battle; the screams, the shots, the trumpet calls, all slowly faded, until there was only a distant murmur drifting through the tent flaps. Still she sat, frozen in place. Not until another half a lifetime had passed was there suddenly movement at the doorway. She tore her gaze away from her hands, looked up, and gasped.

Thorsten stood there, his face wooden, his eyes sunk deeply into his skull, burning into hers in turn. He stepped slowly across the carpeted floor and dropped heavily onto one knee before her.

"Tsar Peter is dead," he choked out. "Charles is wounded – shot – and may not last the night. I trust that is enough of a change to split the timestream?"

She slowly nodded. "It must be – I'm still here." A sudden sharp intake of breath. "Did... did you find..."

His silent eyes gave the answer.

A sob burst out of Rose, her hands flying to cover her face. She'd never get home now. Never...

"Rose..." Thorsten whispered, his voice full of unspoken emotion. "Would it be so terrible, to stay here? … With me?"

How could she answer that? How could she choose?

And her silence was answer in itself.

"Of course," he said bitterly. "I've nothing to offer, and I'm twice your age." He reached up and gently pried her hands away from her face. "Well, then, I suppose you'd better have this."

And into her palms, he placed... the time jumper.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She stared at it, eyes and mouth wide, the object of her searching for so many weeks.

Thorsten cupped her cheek with one hand, and then suddenly leaned over and kissed the other cheek. "I wish you well," he choked out. Then he abruptly lurched back to his feet, whirled around and walked swiftly to the doorway with long steps, seeking escape.

"Thorsten," she whispered after him, her heart breaking. He checked for but a microsecond, then went on even faster, disappearing into the night.

Rose sobbed gain, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth to stifle them. Then she flipped open the jumper, pressed the keys to unlock it, and – hesitating an endless second – pushed Recall.

The backlight had changed, from white to a beautiful clear green. She was back in her own parallel.

She sobbed again, then screwed her eyes tightly shut, and stabbed Execute.

^..^

She dropped out of the transport flash and landed hard on her rear, a can rattling out from under her. Taking a deep breath for courage, she forced her eyes open, and found herself in a filthy, modern alleyway, beside a large, hideously-smelly green dumpster.

She was back in the alley behind her own shop.

Just as it dawned on her, she heard the shop door open on the other side of the dumpster, and jerked back, hiding, as footsteps came round the bin and stopped, the top pried up, and a bag of trash tossed in. The footsteps retreated, and Rose leaned forward to peek around the corner, knowing what she'd see: her own back, dressed in that peasant blouse and skirt, walking swiftly towards the street. She witnessed the fake policeman come around the corner and flash his badge, then grab "her" arm, and disappear with "her" in a brilliant flash of light.

Without thinking, Rose was suddenly scrambling to her feet. _The school!_ She zipped to the corner and around it, and took off down the avenue at a dead run, ignoring the stares and honks she garnered. Two blocks, one, across the street...

…. and there he was, angelic, standing with his mates outside the kindergarten door, laughing with them. _"Paul!"_ she cried out, and then dropped to her knees and flung her arms out to the side like she so often did, and he laughed and ran to her, flinging his five-year-old arms around her neck and hugging her tightly – much too young yet to have learned distaste for public displays of parental affection.

 _"Mummy Rose!_ " he laughed.

She clutched him to her, hugging him so tightly he almost couldn't breathe, her sobs coming fast now, tears streaming down her cheeks. She held him for so much longer than usual, of course he began to squirm. "Mummy..." He pushed away slightly. "Why are you crying?" he asked, all preschool concern.

Rose forced herself to let him go, and dropped back to her heels, smiling through her tears up at his brilliant sea-green eyes, so heart-stoppingly startling in the adult Corvantes' face. She managed to stifle her sobs again. "Mummy had a very, very, _very_ long day," she finally answered. "And I thought I might not make it here on time."

"But you did!" It was an old exchange.

"Yes, I did! And... I have a surprise for you. You and I are going on a holiday – a REAL holiday, not a pretend one. And it might be a very long one," she added, more to herself than him. Then she smiled back up at him again. "Would you like that?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Are we going on a airplane?"

"Nope!" she grinned. "We're going by magic. _Real_ magic."

"Wow! Harry Potter magic?"

"Nope!" she said again. " _Swedish_ magic. That's even _better_. But first.. we need to go pack!"

She pushed up off the ground and took his hand, the one with the birthmark, and they walked the three blocks over to their flat. She was halfway down the communal hallway when she suddenly remembered and groaned, and turned around, heading back to the superintendent's office.

"Mrs Douglas!" she called out at the half door, open at the top. "I lost my key again!"

A gargantuan woman lumbered out from the kitchen. "Again? That's the third time this year!" She took a large ring of keys off a hook on the wall, out of reach of the doorway, and handed them over.

"Yeah, well... I promise you, this will be the last time." Rose grinned. She took the keys and they turned around again. She found the right key, unlocked her door, and opened it, turning to Paul. "Listen. I'll be right back. But I want you to pull out all of your clothes and stack them up on the bed to choose from, OK?"

"OK, Mummy." And off he went.

Rose reached in and scooped up a coin from the dish she kept by the door, then walked back to the office. "I need to make a phone call." She reached in and grabbed the cordless phone on the desk, dropping the coin in the waiting bowl and the keys on the desk, and dialed the number of her shop. It rang... and kept ringing. Rose grimaced, remembering her incredibly busy last shift – was it only that morning? Finally, the answering machine picked up.

"Mrs. Corrigan? This is Rose, Rose Tyler. I'm sorry.. I'm really sorry, but I'm quitting. I'm won't be back. I know this leaves you in a lurch, but it can't be helped. Goodbye."

"Quitting?" Mrs Douglas pounced. "What'd you do, win the lottery? They haven't found the winner from last Saturday yet!"

"I wish," said Rose, turning back.

She stepped back into her tiny, one-room public-assistance flat and looked around, sighing. No, she wouldn't miss this. Stepping over to the wide bed she shared with Paul, she saw he'd followed her instructions perfectly, like he always did. "Good! Now, I want you to pick out two or three favorites from each pile – don't forget the socks and underpants!"

Turning to the beat-up dresser, she matched him, pulling out her own few favorite things, then they stuffed their chosen clothes into a pair of knapsacks. "Now," she told him. "You get to pick out ONE toy to bring. Just one. And it can't be anything with batteries, because we won't be able to get new ones."

While he was pondering that, she looked around again, and spied her two most precious possessions: her pictures on the dresser. Smiling mistily, she picked up them up in their double frame. On the left was herself, baby Paul, and Paul's birth mother, Irina. They had formed an instant sisterhood, closer than she would ever have believed, when they met just before his birth, and became roommates a short time later. When Irina was diagnosed with malignant skin cancer a few months later, already past help, they had arranged for Rose to adopt Paul, becoming his Mummy Rose from his earliest memories, easing – however slightly – the grief at her loss a few months later.

She looked then at the picture in the right-hand frame, of her parents, remembering; lightly touching Pete's and Jackie's smiling faces through the glass. The photo had been taken just a few weeks before that awful car crash that had claimed both their lives, leaving her and her new son all alone. _Nobody left in the world to miss us, and that's the sad truth._ She closed the frame and wrapped it in a soft kerchief, one of her Mum's, and tucked it into her pack in between her clothes for protection.

"Ready, Mummy!" She saw he'd at last picked out his Spiderman doll, and grinned, unsurprised.

"OK, tiger. Let's get this backpack on," and she made sure the straps were snug, then put her own larger pack on her back. Then she got down on her knees, and had Paul put his arms around her neck. "Hold on tight! Ready?"

Behind his back, she opened the jumper, found the record of the last jump, and reversed it, took a last deep breath, and punched Activate once more.

^..^

They were back again in the Khan's tent. It didn't seem like any time at all had passed here. Paul was staring around, eyes huge, his mouth hanging open. "It worked! The magic really worked!"

She didn't give him time to absorb it. She had to find Thorsten. She sprang back to her feet and took his hand firmly in hers. "Do NOT let go, no matter what!" Then she led him to the doorway and out.

He was nowhere to be seen. Panic seeping around her edges, she stared around, then caught the eyes of the guard who'd led her inside a lifetime before. "Where is he?" she wailed frantically, knowing he couldn't possibly understand her – but he did. He smiled and pointed off to the right, rattling off some sentence she assumed meant "he went thataway."

"Thank you!" she said fervently, then started around the tent. She turned the corner, stumbled to a halt, and took a huge gulp of air.

There he was, tightening the cinch on his horse, preparing to escape this horror and heartbreak, his back turned to her.

"Thorsten!" she called, her voice barely above a whisper. But it carried.

He stiffened, unbelieving, then whirled around, hope lighting his eyes. He suddenly stopped, taking in her pack... and the boy next to her, holding her hand, wearing his own pack on his back. He took a deep breath, and slowly walked over to stand before her.

"You came back," he whispered, not quite sure whether to believe it.

Rose nodded, then took her own deep breath. "This is my son, Paul."

Thorsten tipped his head, asking without words, and she nodded again. "Yes, this is who was waiting for me."

He swallowed. He still wasn't sure. "And his father?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't have one," she replied softly. Irina had managed to escape her abusive husband and flee to England before he even knew she was pregnant. Rose had thought Corvantes was that man, caught up to them at last; her relief at finding out he was Paul himself, grown up, from a parallel world, had contributed to her bewilderment back in the Hub.

Thorsten's face twisted. "He does now," was his simple, matter-of-fact reply.

Tears sprang to her eyes once more, and she bit her lips, as he knelt down in front of the boy. "Hello, Paul. My name is Thorsten." His voice was warm and kind, but he didn't try to hug the boy, holding out his hand instead.

Paul peered sideways up at his mother, unsure, and she nodded encouragingly. So he turned back and solemnly shook Thorsten's hand.

Thorsten smiled at him, then stood up again. He gazed at Rose, his eyes damp, and his hand slipped around her waist, pulling her in without a word for a lingering, loving kiss, the sweetest kiss in all of history.

And at long, long last, she was home.


	7. Dance 6 Viennese Waltz

**Fifth Intermission**

Alpha Rose started her now-habitual swing to the monitors, but then caught sight of Jared's face. Just as the Swedish Rose had flashed out, he'd drawn breath to speak, his expression suddenly slightly panicked.

"Jared? What is it?" a little panicked, herself.

"Nothing," he muttered, wiping his face blank as he turned around to watch the dimension cannon's readouts. "I _think_ I programmed that right."

Jack pounced, already swinging his arm up with his personal time jumper. "Should I go back and help?"

Jared shook his head. "No, it's..." Even as he spoke, the vivid green traces of Swedish Rose's parallel world flickered into existence alongside the other four. "... already too late," Jared finished through the relieved grin splitting his face. "Guess I was right, after all."

He turned back to Jack. "It only takes a couple of seconds, subjectively to us here, for the changes they're making in history to catch up to us. You wouldn't have had time to even make the jump – let alone find out where and when to go to. I didn't have time to tell you – as you saw. I wouldn't have had time if I'd been wrong, either."

Jack's arm sank back down, while he continued giving Jared a level look – a hair below a glare. "So let's take just a little more time beforehand, OK?"

Rose's eyebrows shot up at the idea of Jack Harkness advocating careful planning before any action, but forbore making any comments, as did Jared, who only nodded absently.

There were now only two parallels left to be established, their own Beta and Reich World. Jared picked up one of the remaining paperbacks and turned around, sighing. Reich Rose was still across the room, sitting slumped on the edge of the platform, elaborately ignoring the activity around the cannon's controls. In the last few minutes, their dog Tock had wandered over to her, and was now lying beside her with his head on her knee, gazing up soulfully at this mirror image of his own mistress and thumping his long tail on the floor while she absently stroked his fur.

Jared shared an apprehensive glance with his Rose. She shrugged and bobbed her head back at him, apologetically indicating he probably had a better chance than she did at talking the other woman out of whatever funk she was in. So he took a deep breath, tucked the book under one arm, and "casually wandered" over to sit on Tock's other side, dangling his feet likewise over the edge. Alpha Rose and Jack leaned against the console side-by-side to watch, arms identically crossed.

"I'm not doin' it," Reich Rose stated flatly before Jared could say a word. She didn't turn to look at him, staring obstinately across the Hub instead.

"So how've you been?" he asked, innocently conversational. She just shot him a disgusted glare, and didn't deign to reply. "All right," he acknowledged, nodding, then returned to the subject with one word. "Why?"

Reich Rose's face scrunched up, a tremor creeping into her voice. "All those millions of people dying... all the suffering..." She sniffed, blinking back sudden tears. "What's the point?"

"What about all the _billions_ of people who _lived_ – who would continue to live on into the limitless future? _Countless_ individuals, spreading throughout creation in your universe?"

She shook her head. "If I don't even create the split, they'll never be born. They'll never know. You can't hold me responsible for preventing their births."

Jared thought a moment. "And what about you?" he asked gently. "The cannon is protecting you for the time being, while the situation is in flux, but pretty soon that's going to run out. You'll..." He stopped for a moment, looking for a word, then settled for the unsatisfactory, "... disappear." Then, stronger, "You'll _die,_ Rose."

"Well, I won't exactly care, then, will I?" she said defiantly, oozing hurt. "No more pain or disappointment sounds pretty good to me."

Jared didn't know what to say, so for once, kept his mouth shut. Alpha Rose, though, couldn't stay still any longer. She padded softly over and melted down on Reich Rose's other side, putting her arm around her doppelganger's shoulders. "Been having a rough time?" she prodded gently.

Reich Rose bit her lips, a pair of stray tears escaping her blinking eyes. Finally, she nodded. "Things didn't exactly work out the way we'd hoped," she whispered simply.

Alpha Rose squeezed her shoulders in sympathy, nodding, remembering the rough time she and her stepfather, Beta's Pete, had gone through just getting used to the idea of each other being around. And she hadn't been responsible for her own mother's death. She could only imagine the other woman's situation – let alone the troubles attendant on escaping a hostile foreign occupation and immigrating to another country. She didn't know what kind of reception the Greater Americans had given the former Resistance fighter and his former Collaborator daughter, or whether they'd enlisted the pair in their own continuing fight against the Nazis, but it was fairly obvious that the girl had not found a fairy-tale ending to her sad story. Hopefully further betrayal on top of all that she'd suffered before hadn't been part of it.

Jared may have caught a sense of the situation, but he couldn't let it go without a bit more of a fight. "Rose..." he began softly. "How many people died in your world wars? All together?"

" 'World wars' ?" Reich Rose was befuddled. "You mean the Great War?"

Jared blinked, then caught on. "You only had one? One massive war?"

She nodded. "You had more?"

"Yeah." He pointedly turned her back to his question, though. "How many?"

She shrugged. "I don't know... I think in school they said it was over fifty million." Her voice oozed pain, saying without words _how can you think that's a small number?_

He nodded back. "That's probably about right." A pause, then he took a breath to begin again. "I'd set up our dimension cannon, back in Beta before this happened, to try to do a survey of the parallels, comparing the twentieth century deaths from major wars and famines in each – totaling up the clusters of deaths over a certain threshold. It looked like that was the bloodiest century for all of them, but with greatly varying totals. Beta was about in the middle. You know which one was the worst? Alpha. This one right here, the main one. It had over two hundred and three _million_ deaths due to war and man-made famine. All of the other parallels did better than this, one way or another. But you know which one was the best?"

He paused, and she shook her head, though she had a clue where he was leading.

"Yours," he said simply, confirming her fear. "You had only seventy million, total."

Reich Rose was bewildered all over again, the Great War so fresh in her own history making that assessment seem completely false and illogical. "How? With the Reich taking over the world? And nuking London?"

"Less than a million people actually died in the bombing of London. And the Great War was the ONLY major conflict of the entire century in your world. The rest were staved off and conflicts settled – _relatively_ – peacefully, or at least they weren't allowed to spread across continents and suck in a lot of other combatant nations, keeping the damage – and the body count – relatively contained. And _that_ ," he continued, staving off her obvious next question, "was arguably largely due to the influence of one single man. The man whose life you need to go save. It's ironic," he added as if in a side note, "that in some ways, you have the easiest job of all. All you need to do is prevent a single assassin from pulling the trigger."

Reich Rose was trying not to care, holding on to her own misery, but Alpha Rose asked for her, leaning forward to peer around at Jared. "Who?"

Jared's mouth gratefully twitched at his partner for feeding him the line. "Archduke Franz Ferdinand of the Austro-Hungarian empire, of course, whose assassination sparked World War One in our world."

Reich Rose was still obstinately shaking her head.

Jared was curious about something in particular, which he hadn't of course been able to pick up through the cannon. "What happened to the Jews in your world, Rose?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, did _anything_... in particular... happen to them that you can think of from your history lessons?" He was trying not to ask too leading a question.

"There was a... mass migration of them to New Israel in the twenties and thirties, I think. Now the majority of the Jews in the world live there."

"New Israel? In Palestine?"

"No, it's in Africa. I forget what they used to call it." Diverted, she tried to remember. "Um... it's southwest of Morocco?"

"Western Sahara?"

"That's the place," she agreed. She sighed, exasperated. "Why are you asking?"

Jared paused before he replied, leaning forward to emphasize it. "In Alpha, in the second of our great wars, the Nazis – the same guys you fought later and are still fighting – _murdered_ over _six million_ Jews. And almost as many more Gypsies, so-called 'defectives', and other people." Her face showed her horror, and he nodded. "That's right, _murdered_. Put them into death camps and shot or gassed them en masse. And that was only one of the genocides in Alpha that apparently didn't happen, or didn't happen to the same scale, in your world.

"Rose..." he pressed on, attempting to sway the reluctant, wounded young woman. "Of all the parallels here, even with the horrible situation you're currently in, you came closest to _getting it right._ And you have the best chance of solving those problems now and going on, to make the best possible world. If you're given the chance. If all those billions of people, right on the cusp of being right now, are given the chance."

Reich Rose's face crumpled, and she covered it with her hands, sobbing. But her head was still shaking violently, No.

Jared backed down immediately, nodding his head and patting her back. "I understand. Of course. And it's totally your choice." He hesitated a moment, then went on. "But before you make your final decision, there's one more thing you need to know."

And what he told her then... changed _everything_.

* * *

 **Dance Six: Viennese Waltz**

 **Preparations**

Rose stumbled out of the transport flash, finding herself in a narrow street lined with two-story houses. The roadway was cobbled; the ruts worn into the paving stones betraying their great age. She turned on her heel, gazing all around, caught for a moment by the serene, simple view. The houses were whitewashed stone, with wrought-iron bars on each window above flower boxes overflowing with riots of colorful midsummer blossoms. The place oozed old world charm, even as it obviously wasn't exactly a prosperous neighborhood – as attested to by the clothes hanging between the buildings to dry.

And speaking of which... Rose looked around carefully, but still not a soul was in sight. So she edged over to one of the lines, reached up, and snatched a plain peasant-style blouse and a long, dark skirt. Swiftly skimming them on over her plain white Tshirt and jeans, she found they gave her instant camouflage, and tamped down sharply on the twinge of guilt at the theft. The next line yielded a kerchief to hide her distinctive blonde hair, and her local disguise was complete. (Well, except for her trainers, but she wasn't fussed about them.)

Back in the Hub, Jared had begun to program her time jumper with the target: Sarajevo, Bosnia, on the morning of the assassination, June 28th, 1914. She stopped him in mid-program. "A few days before then, please. So I have time to get acclimated and make a plan." So he'd sent her back five days before, on the 23rd. The handsome Captain had volunteered to come back with her, but she'd refused with a wordless shake of her head. She'd learned to depend on herself, and herself alone, and certainly wasn't going to rely on any strangers she'd only briefly met. Besides, Jared had said the job was an easy one.

She walked slowly through the town, just looking and listening. Most of what she heard she didn't comprehend, figuring it was the local Bosnian language (whatever that was called), but she did catch some snatches of German, familiar to her from her life under the Nazis – and since then. After the American CIA had wrung her dry of information (which happened disconcertingly quickly – she'd thought she would have known more than that), they'd put her to work translating stolen documents and other communications, which had the unexpected side effect of making her even more proficient at that language.

She had to admit, when she stopped for a minute to gaze at the view from one of the many little bridges crossing the Miljacka River that ran right through the center of town, Sarajevo was _gorgeous_. Nestled into a steep-sided valley, protected from the harsh winter winds by the surrounding mountains, the town's whitewashed houses and many small mosques spread high up the sides of the hills on either side of that river, forming a natural amphitheater that was teeming with happy, relaxed inhabitants. Rose could not remember EVER seeing so many people smiling and laughing freely in her life. She certainly never had – and suddenly she was swamped by a wave of envy for these free spirits, secure in their place in the world.

She was strolling slowly through a lively marketplace when it happened. Right in front of her, a well-dressed man was purchasing a bag of coffee from an open stall, turning away with it while stuffing his fat money clip into an outside pocket. He turned too quickly, however, and almost crashed into a pair of young men walking the other direction – and nearly stepped on Rose's foot when he bounced back. In the confusion, Rose darted her hand into his pocket before she even consciously formed the impulse, and his money clip was into her own pocket in an instant. Then she turned and fled, her cheeks burning in shame for what she'd done – even as she knew she needed some money to survive the next few days. Was this what she'd become? A common thief? _Well, it's not that far to fall, according to some people._

Her father's face loomed in her mind, staring at her accusingly, mingled pain, guilt, and she couldn't decipher what all clouding his eyes, before he looked away, like he always did. _He can't stand the sight of me, even now._ No, things hadn't worked out for the two of them at all.

 _Well, we'll see what happens when I get home. One more job to do, and then, things will change, one way or another._

Coming to herself again, she found she'd come quite a ways up the hill. It was heading on towards evening, and she needed to find some place to hole up. The hillside above beckoned in the afternoon sunlight, so she kept walking that way, figuring there should be some abandoned shed or something a little ways out of town.

And there was. It wasn't much, a little one-room hut with a dirt floor and a few pieces of rough, rickety wooden furniture, tucked into the corner of an overgrown pasture – probably only used by some shepherd during the winter, when the flocks she could barely see up in the distance on the mountainsides were down in the valley rather than up there. But the view from the door was _spectacular_ – looking down on the town and across towards the sunset.

But now she was hungry. Sighing, she pulled out the money clip, took off the top couple of bills, and found a hiding place for the rest in the hut, tucked behind a loose stone under the bed. (From the looks of it, the hole was regularly used for such safekeeping.) Then she hiked back into town, managed to purchase a loaf of bread and a few other things, including a blanket and some candles, and a wineskin which she filled at the water fountain, and got back to her hut before dark.

She'd brought the book with her, tucking it into her waistband at her back, so she spent that evening and the next two days reading it, catching up on the tangled stories of the various countries and their rulers (both the public, titled rulers, and the officious, power-hungry bureaucrats and secretive spymasters hidden in their grubby lairs), and the interwoven treaties and promises that had all led into Alpha Universe's First World War. She poured over and over the few terse pages that detailed the assassination which would happen on the coming Sunday, until she could have told it in her sleep – and in fact, she did dream about it: dark, violent dreams where the killer's grainy photographed face morphed into Jimmy Stones, laughing while he branded her neck with his cigarette, and then she pulled the trigger of Schultz's gun twice, and the man in the fancy mustache folded over, trying to protect his dying wife, and the car they rode in exploded into a mighty conflagration, and so did the world...

She jerked awake to the sound of thunder. Two days to go, and a downpour was imminent. And she was out of food. Sighing, she wrapped herself in the thin blanket like a shawl and started to let herself out the door to return to town, then stopped, thinking about her hideout. The time jumper was still on her wrist – she wouldn't take it off until she was home again – and on impulse, she unlocked the keypad, then captured the current time – plus ten minutes – and location and locked them into its memory. Then she took a few more bills off the money clip, put it and the book into the "safe", and set out towards town.

She made it just before the rain, and spent two hours sitting in a cafe near the train station, sipping coffee as slowly as she could and staring out the window at the pedestrians. After a while the rain eased and she left the cafe, walking the route the Archduke's car would take along the riverside, and then spent almost an hour at the spot where the fatal shots would be fired, just looking at it from all angles. The town was alive with people after the stormy morning, getting ready for the festival also on Sunday, concurrent with the Archduke's visit. She stumbled on an outdoor cafe overlooking the river, with a menu in German and a waiter who spoke the same, and on impulse treated herself to a good meal, watching the water and the people both, wishing she could relax – but the ever-present knot in her chest, below her heart, would not unclench so easily. Something that had taken a lifetime to build would not be seduced into giving up in an afternoon, no matter how brightly the sun shone from above or how many strangers smiled at her in passing.

After paying for the meal – she wasn't sure what the standard procedure for tipping was, but others had left a few coins on their tables, so she did, too – she got up and walked back through the market again, buying several days' worth of food, then lugged it back up the hill to her hut.

When she went to put the rest of the money away, she found the clip was undisturbed, but the book was gone. She sat on her heels, looking at the empty space, then shrugged. Apparently she had needed the escape hatch after all, and had reason to have removed the book. Nothing to do but wait and find out why. Her excellent memory, honed by those years of spying on her German lover and passing on the information to the Resistance, had settled the coming scenario into her brain as well as if the book were still in her hands.

There didn't seem much that she could do other than station herself outside the little store where Gavrilo Princip would stop for a sandwich, in front of which was the spot where Franz Ferdinand's car would stop, giving the assassin a completely unexpected second chance after the morning's initial disappointment. At least, that's what would happen in Alpha. Rose's plan was, quite simply, to grab his arm and prevent the shots from striking their targets.

What could go wrong?

* * *

 **Chance**

At last, after a Saturday that seemed to last at least a week, the fateful Sunday had arrived. Rose had spent a restless, sleepless night on the little cot, and was up with the dawn, even though she knew the shots would not be fired until almost eleven. She forced herself to eat some breakfast, washed her face with the last few drops of water from the wineskin, pulled the skirt and blouse back on over her jeans and Tshirt, covered her hair again with the kerchief, and walked down the hill through the morning drizzle, trying to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. As she knew it would, the rain suddenly stopped an hour later, and the sun came out to shine gloriously on the coming small parade. She mingled with the crowds along the riverside route to see the Archduke's procession go by, standing a half-block from where the bomb would be thrown, and watched the first part of the drama unfold as scripted: the bomb missed the Archduke's car in front and landed under the second one, everyone foolishly stopped to see what was happening, then rushed off to the hospital and their further appointments, respectively.

Rose caught a glimpse of the young Serbian whom fate had fingered for the final act, Gavrilo Princip, recognizing him from the photos in the now-lost book, and slowly followed him up the street as he left the parade route. He turned into the little store for his sandwich, and she stationed herself just outside the door, leaning casually against the wall, to wait.

Half a century later – or was it a few seconds? – he came walking out the door again, and was hailed by another young man, apparently the friend mentioned in the book, and they stood for several minutes chatting, not four feet away. Rose could hear them perfectly well, although the language was still a mystery. She kept her eyes on the pavement, watching Princip out of the corner of her eye for movement.

The friend finally moved off with some cheerful parting words, and Princip stood for a moment, gazing morosely at nothing. Suddenly a roar of motors from their left caught the attention of both Princip and Rose, and they, along everyone else on the street, turned to see the unexpected sight of two of the Archduke's caravan of magnificent touring cars, tops down in the sunshine, turning the corner towards them.

Rose took a swift glance, then forced her attention back on Princip, her nerves stretched to pinging. He was staring openmouthed at the cars, the second chance for "glory" that he hadn't dreamed he'd get thundering down upon him. She saw his arm twitch for the bomb she knew he was carrying, but then the second car, the one carrying Franz Ferdinand, screeched to a halt right in front of them, the man in the front yelling something at the driver.

Princip visibly changed his mind about his choice of weapon, and his hand darted to the back of his waistband, coming out a split second later with a small pistol. The world instantly narrowed for Rose down to that one pinpoint, and she launched herself off the wall at Princip, grabbing his wrist with both hands and forcing the gun skyward.

The pistol fired, gathering screams as well as the attention of the fifty-or-so people in the immediate vicinity; the street had hardly been deserted. Everyone started yelling at once, though to Rose it seemed as if they came from a great distance. Princip was wrestling with her for the gun, his skinny strength seeming to double or triple in his rage. She was jerked around in front of him, then he suddenly pulled his hands down and between them, then shoved her away – right into the side of the target car.

To Rose's instant horror, the gun was now pointed directly at her chest, his furious face behind it an ugly purple mask of rage. Time slowed to a crawl, as out of the corners of her eyes she saw other civilians reaching for Princip from both sides, and felt the car at her back begin to move backwards, away from the danger at last. But his finger was tightening on the trigger.

Perhaps he was also aware of his chance slipping away, because at the last instant, his eyes, and the gun, moved left towards the passengers in the back seat. Rose's hands had been flung out sideways as she'd been thrown back, and automatically grasped the top edge of the car's sides. Now she twisted around, letting the car's movement pull her sideways, reaching with her left hand for the car, too.

She heard the pistol fire again, and felt a searing pain in her shoulder, and she gave a gasping little scream through springing tears. Her eyes fastened on those of the Duchess, Sophie, gaping in terror beside her husband two feet away. Rose's feet were still on the pavement, the car's backwards movement pulling her off of them. A vision of herself tumbling to the ground and under the front wheel flashed through her mind. Then, inexplicably, Sophie's hands were on hers, clutching them tightly, holding on for dear life, and Rose's feet were moving faster than they ever had, as she managed to get them onto the running board.

Time sped up to normal with an almost audible crunch. Behind her, the crowd had reached Princip and were wrestling him to the ground at last. Everyone in the car was yelling, the General in front screaming at the driver, the man standing on the other running board brandishing his sword ( _sword? In the twentieth century?_ flashed irrelevantly through Rose's mind) at her. At _her_!

Franz Ferdinand began adding his two cents, and Rose seized on the comprehensible German with something close to relief. "Sophie! What are you doing? Push her away!" Reaching across the Duchess, he tried to pry her hands off of Rose's.

"No!" his wife returned. "Franzl, she just saved your life! And she's been hurt in doing so!"

It took him a second, apparently startled at her contradicting him, then he focused on her shoulder, and between his look and the continuing, searing pain there, it finally dawned on Rose that she had been shot. He changed his mind in an instant, and added his own hands to Sophie's in holding her arms, keeping her on the running board, then, turning his head, he shouted at the driver to get to the hospital as fast as they could, then telling the man on the running board to shut up.

"No!" Rose gasped out. "Please, you need to listen to me! There's so much you need to do!"

But of course it was useless. How could she ever get through to him in this chaos?

And as soon as that thought struck her, the solution came on its heels. She let go of the car with her left hand, feeling both of the royal couple tighten their own grips on her in response, flipped open the leather cover of the time jumper, and hit Recall and Activate in two lightning-fast stabs of her finger.

The car disappeared in the usual flash of light, and the three of them went tumbling in a heap.

* * *

 **A Tuck in Time**

Rose pushed her face and torso up off the dirt floor and groaned – landing on a gunshot wound isn't a good way to make it feel better. She managed to twist around and sit, then looked over at her two unwilling "guests", just struggling to the same position themselves. The looks on their faces would have been comical if they had been in a movie: utterly flabbergasted, and not a little fearful, their huge eyes darting around the little hut – for that's where she'd brought them, using the "escape hatch" she'd programmed into the jumper two days before.

The Archduke's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Duchess Sophie merely gaped.

"Your Majesty," Rose began using her best German, holding up one hand. Both their eyes snapped to hers. "Please be calm. I brought you here – "

"You _brought_?" Finding his voice at last, he managed to imbue it with a truly impressive amount of imperiousness in just a few words. "How? Where are we?" he demanded.

"We're still in Sarajevo, on the hill outside of town." Rose picked herself up off the floor at last, coming to slightly unsteady feet. She thought of offering a hand to the couple, then thought better of the impulse, and merely motioned towards the hut's door. "Please, have a look."

Franz Ferdinand lumbered to his feet, stopped to pull his wife to hers, as well, then stomped past Rose to fling open the indicated portal. And stopped dead, jaw hanging, at the sight of the town he'd just been riding through the middle of spread out below his feet.

"Notice anything different, Your Majesty?" Rose asked innocently.

 _"Highness!"_ he snapped without turning.

"Excuse me?" Rose turned to look at Sophie, confused.

"Highness, not Majesty," the Duchess informed her, and then Rose caught on: she had the wrong form of address for the stuffy, hidebound noble.

Rose swallowed a grin, sliding what she hoped was an appropriate note of contrition into her voice. "Forgive me. Your Highness."

Sophie was still staring at her. "Fraulein...?"

"Tyler, Your Highness. Rose Tyler."

The Duchess shook herself, then motioned towards Rose's shoulder. "You're wounded. Please, sit, and let me take a look." Telling her husband to face away, she sat Rose down on the bed, then gently folded back the shoulder of her peasant blouse to find that the bullet had only grazed the top of it – impressively bloody, but not life-threatening.

"Just a scratch," Rose commented, peering at it out of the corner of her eye. Then she grinned. "I've always wanted to say that."

"Fraulein?" Sophie was mystified, and a bit apprehensive.

Rose shook her head. "Nothing, Your Highness. Forgive me." She carefully pulled the blouse the rest of the way off with Sophie's help, then her torn and bloody Tshirt, and handed the latter to the Duchess. "Use this."

A short time later her shoulder was bandaged as well as it could be under the circumstances, and her blouse was once more in place over it. Sophie stepped back, and Rose tried the previous line again, directing her words towards the Archduke's back as she stood. "Notice anything different, Your Highness?"

He finally turned, giving her a confused stare. She opened her mouth to explain – and at that moment, thunder pealed almost directly above the hut. Rose shut her mouth with a pop, and merely pointed a finger upward as the rain rebounded on the roof, pouring even harder than it had been the minute before.

"It wasn't raining a minute ago in the town," Sophie put in, wonder tinging her voice.

"That's because it isn't a minute ago," Rose told her. "It's two days ago."

"I beg your pardon?" Franz interrupted stiffly, not at all amused.

"I didn't just bring you to another place, Your Highness. I brought you to another _time_. It's now Friday, the twenty-sixth of June. We've come back in time two days." She waved her hand out the door again. "If you knew exactly where you were at this time, you could go take a look at yourself. But that's _really_ not recommended..."

Disbelief warred on his face with the evidence of his senses, then he put it aside. "What do you want?" he asked her straight, his brusque manner making his opinion plain: if she'd kidnapped them, she must be dangerous.

"Only to talk for an hour, uninterrupted. I give you my most solemn promise, Your Highness, that when we're finished talking, I will return both of you not only to your car, but to the precise moment we left it, safe and sound."

"The _moment_...?" Sophie repeated. She turned to her husband, shaking. "Well, I suppose we'd better listen," she told him, her voice quavering with the effort of grasping a straw of common sense in the situation.

"Please sit down," Rose said as graciously as she could. "I'm sorry the accommodations are so rough." The two royals looked around, taking in the furnishings for the first time, then moved together to sit gingerly on the two rickety chairs. Rose waited till they were settled, as she thought good manners indicated, never having dealt with royalty before, and then sat herself again on the edge of the bed.

And then suddenly found herself at a loss for words. How do you begin this kind of conversation? Her visitors gave her no help, merely staring at her warily.

"I'm sorry, Your Highnesses. I don't exactly have anything prepared to say. I brought you here to... to convince you of the grave danger that you're in – that the _world_ is in. Your deaths here today would have kicked off a war, one that would sweep across the world and involve _everyone_ , at the cost of _millions_ of lives..." She trailed off, knowing she was making a fool of herself. _This really isn't going well._

"Our _deaths_?" the Archduke said icily.

"Yes," she replied. "You would have died down there today, both of you, if I hadn't gotten in the way."

"And how do you know this?"

She stared at him a moment. "Because you did. It happened, in history. In one history." She was babbling and she knew it. She took a deep breath, let it out, and simply told the truth. "I'm from the future. A hundred years into the future, in fact. And I've come back to correct history, to _change_ history, to split the timeline in two, so that what was supposed to happen, what _did_ happen in one stream, _doesn't_ happen in another – in mine. So that I can get back home to my timeline, in the future – a future where you didn't die today, where you went on to do all the things you are supposed to do. The things the world so desperately _needs_ you to do."

His eyes were bulging. "You're speaking utter nonsense, Fraulein!"

And that's when it hit her. She held up a finger, "Please wait one moment, Your Highness." Kneeling down by the bed, she reached under it for the loose stone, and pulled out the paperback, then sitting down again, she held it out to him. As he took it, cautiously, she explained, "This book is all about the war that's going to start, how it came about, how everything that's happened over the past few decades has been leading up to it, how you died on Sunday, and how that kicked everything off." As he studied the cover, she suddenly remembered. "Oh! I'm sorry, Your Highness. It's in English."

"I can read English," he informed her stiffly, then proved it by providing the German translation of the book's title.

"Forgive me," she murmured. "Then, Your Highness... start on page five. Just a few pages." The book jumped right into the assassination, before backing up to give the background.

He shot her a fierce glare under his eyebrows, his waxed mustache twitching. Then he opened the book, flipped the first few pages, and began to read, silently. Sophie and Rose merely sat and watched him for several minutes as he turned the pages. His eyes gradually became wider and wider, his breath coming in occasional gasps as he remembered to breathe, and finally all color drained out of his face.

Reaching the end of the intro, he slowly raised his eyes to Rose's again, staring.

"Franzl?" Sophie whispered fearfully. "What is it? What does it say?"

"That young man," he started, his voice shaking, "... Princip? … was going to shoot both of us. And we both would have died. Sopherl... you would have died." He tore his gaze from Rose to look at his wife's dear face instead. Rose could tell fro his anguished voice how deeply the thought of her death had cut him – much more deeply than his own.

Sophie shook her head, denying it all. "But it's just a story, isn't it? How could it tell what didn't happen?"

Rose caught his attention again. "But the first part of what it said, right up till he fired those shots, told what you'd already been through, didn't it? Word for word?"

He nodded, silently, unwillingly.

"How could anyone possibly have written that down already, let alone printed it and bound it in a book?" She let him consider that for a moment, then added, "Take a look at the copyright, Your Highness."

He flipped back to the first page. "Nineteen sixty-two..." he whispered hoarsely, staring at it.

She nodded. "That book is from the future. From one possible future, I should say. I'm trying to get it back on track to what it's _supposed_ to be. I'm trying to correct history." She'd decided on impulse that putting it that way probably sounded better to two people who were "supposed" to die in the other, Alpha timeline.

Finally, finally, the Archduke nodded. He turned back to Sophie. "I believe her," he said simply. "There's even a picture of us walking down the steps of the city hall ten minutes ago – or, ten minutes before..." he added, flipping back to that page and showing it to her. "How could anyone have processed that picture and printed this book so quickly?" Sophie took the book from him and stared at the picture, proof of everything, her face ghostly.

He turned back to Rose at last, capitulating. "All right," he said quietly. "We... are in your debt, Fraulein. But I still do not understand... I still do not see how our deaths could precipitate a 'world war'," he quoted the book's title, obviously not believing the implied magnitude.

"Do you know what dominoes are, Your Highness?" she asked on impulse. He nodded stiffly, surprised at the non sequitor. "You've seen them set up in rows, standing up? And then when you knock one over, the next falls, and the next, until they're all down?"

He nodded again, now seeing where she was going with it. "Yes."

"You know that all of Europe, every country, is connected to others with treaties, and agreements, and fears. Here's what would have happened. The Austrian government would have blamed the Serbians for your deaths – and they wouldn't have been completely wrong – and sent them a list of almost impossible demands. When the Serbians couldn't meet them all, they would declare war. Then Russia comes in to back the Serbians, and France with Russia, then Germany comes in on Austria's side, attacking France first, then England, and Italy, and Turkey, and on and on, until even the Americans are involved. Dominoes. And then we've got a war on our hands, raging across Europe, that will cost tens of millions of lives. But that's just the beginning... this war will open up the bloodiest century in all of human history, Your Highness." She paused, licking her lips, then leaned forward for emphasis. " _If_ it happens. If it isn't stopped. If _you_ don't stop it."

"And what am _I_ supposed to do?" he hurled back at her, the product of a thousand official slights embittering his voice beyond recognition from the haughty man who'd entered the room. "How am _I_ supposed to stop an entire continent from tearing itself apart? I am _nobody_! Less than nothing! A _laughingstock_!"

The words rang in the silence for a moment, while both women stared at him. Then Sophie laid a gentle hand on his arm, dragging his anguished gaze around to her again. She spoke quietly, with such intensity and sincerity that no one hearing it could fail to be moved.

"You are not nobody, Franzl. You are my husband. And I believe in you."

His mustache twitched, his fierce dark eyes filling with unshed tears. Covering her hand with his, his gaze then dropped to the floor, abashed at her devotion.

Sophie glanced back at Rose, almost as if only then remembering their audience, but Rose merely nodded silently, giving her the tiniest supportive smile.

Eventually, he looked back at his hostess again. "And what am I to do?" he repeated quietly, all wounded defiance gone.

"Take the book," she said. "It will tell you everything – all the names, of all the people who are really in charge in each country, and what they're doing. Use it, and work to dismantle the machines that are driving each government to war."

His head was shaking. "I have no power. I can do nothing."

"Officially, no. Not right now. But..." She bit her lip, unsure how far she could push him. "How old is your uncle, the Emperor?"

He jerked slightly, shocked, but then answered levelly. "Eighty-four."

"If you read far enough in that book, you'll see he's going to die in two years – from natural causes," she hastened to reassure him, but then plowed on to state the obvious. "And then you'll be the emperor. And you'll have the power to put your own men in place, instead of men like General Conrad and Count Berchtold," she named off from memory the two men who – in Alpha – would have been the primary drivers of the war with Serbia, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen again in shock at her inside knowledge of his own government's workings.

"But then... you need to go even further, Your Highness. You need to not only dismantle war machines, but you need to – you _must_ – work to create a framework for peace, instead."

He wasn't following her. "You mean the Hague Tribunal? It's already there..."

But she shook her head. "It's not enough. There must be something stronger. Something that will let – that will _demand_ – that individual nations come together to discuss their conflicts with each other, and resolve them peacefully." She stared at him intensely, somehow knowing that he needed to come up with the idea himself, or he would never get behind it.

And at last he did. "A league of nations..." His eyes were wide with wonder, as he whispered the answer. She nodded conspiratorially, and he went on, admitting, "I have been dreaming of such a thing."

And Rose let loose her supernova smile then at the man who, in her history, had been the founder of precisely that – one of the few things she remembered from her high school history classes.

"Yes. I know. That's my history you're talking about." She sighed then. "It doesn't last forever, not more than a few decades. But while it does, it – they – prevent dozens of wars, and send aid after _countless_ disasters, and save the lives of a _hundred million_ people." It had been nice of Jared to give her the figures, something her own timeline's historians had of course never been able to do definitively.

Then she sighed. Their hour was almost up; she didn't want to run the risk of staying too long. So she stood up, saying, "It's time to go, Your Highnesses." She nodded at the book still in Sophie's hands. "Keep the book – but put it away for now." Franz Ferdinand took it and slipped it into a large pocket in his uniform coat.

"How do we get back?" Sophie asked.

"The same way we came," Rose told her, not elaborating, but she began to reach for their hands. "And back to the precise same moment in the car, as I promised."

"Wait!" the Archduke broke in, holding up his hand. He looked straight at Rose. "Thank you, Fraulein Tyler," he said simply. "For saving my life, and for telling me all of this – for giving me the direction to go in. But most especially.." He paused, a tear lurking in his eye. "Thank you for saving my Sopherl's life. I am in your debt."

"Franzl," his wife demurred, blushing. But she looked at him adoringly.

Rose grinned at both of them, then reached for their hands again, and they both reached out willingly, grasping her forearm as they had before. Then she flipped open the time jumper, recalled the last jump and reversed it, and punched them back to the car.

They came out of the transport flash, ears ringing from the explosion of air that always accompanied it, and found themselves back in the touring car, surrounded by chaos. Rose somehow landed inside the car this time, and blown apart from the royal couple by the blast, bouncing hard on her rump on the little rear-facing jump seat behind the driver. The General and said driver were yelling, ducking away from what they thought had been another bomb exploding just behind their heads. The driver had just finished backing the car frantically away from the gun-toting madman and back around the corner, and threw it into forward gear, jamming his foot on the accelerator to zoom off.

Count Harrach, still on the car's left running board, and holding on for dear life, also yelled in shock and fury, and reacted instantly to the perceived threat from this strange woman, leaning over to grab Rose's arm in a tight grip.

"STOP!" roared the Archduke. "STOP THE CAR!" The driver jammed on the brakes again, bringing them to a screeching halt. "HARRACH! Let her go!" He glared at the Count with a steely gaze, not repeating his command.

Harrach took a breath to argue, then thought better of it, and released her.

"Rose! Go!" Sophie cried urgently, reaching to swing open the car door. Rose didn't wait for it, though, and simply vaulted over the car's side, skirt and all, darted into the gaping, shouting crowd, and was lost to sight in an instant.

* * *

 **Journeys**

Well, of course it wasn't going to be that easy, Rose reminded herself the next morning, as the time jumper's backlight remained pristine Alpha white. _With a world this unstable_ , as the book had outlined it, _any number of things could push it over and send the dominoes tumbling._ If she understood Jared's explanation correctly, the inertia of the timestream was probably still seeking a way to light the fuse and send the world to hell. But she didn't see what else she could do at the moment; she was going to have to wait and see. The ball seemed to be firmly in Franz Ferdinand's court, at least for now.

She had no television to keep up with things ( _had they even been invented yet?_ she wondered idly), or even a radio, but from what she could determine when she walked cautiously into town, the royal couple had left Sarajevo as planned the day before, via train. She went back to the same cafe she'd eaten at on Friday, and carefully pumped the German-speaking waiter for information – not that it took much pumping to get the loquatious man going. His vivid descriptions of the various attacks on the Archduke seemed to leave no detail out – except for any mention of a woman who had tussled with the gunman and then briefly hung on to the royal car during the second phase. The town was abuzz with speculation about the conspirators now in custody, after their pitiful failed attempts at suicide by cyanide capsule. All indications were pointing towards a loose confederation of young Serbian Nationalists suffering from testosterone poisoning and lack of sense, but nothing seemed to tie them to any larger group – or the Serbian government. Rose, not normally one to let perpetrators off the hook, breathed a sigh of relief that their back trail had apparently gone cold; war between Austria-Hungary and Serbia would not break out over this incident, at least.

But now she was completely at loose ends. She had no way of getting home – "home" hadn't been "invented" yet. But she had nowhere else to go and nothing to do, and zero idea how long she would be here. And this little back corner of nowhere wasn't enticing her to stay, especially in the dreary, primitive accommodations on the hill – she was getting tired of going to the bathroom in the bushes and lugging water up from the fountain.

Besides, if there WAS anything else she needed to do, any further assistance she might render to the Archduke, for instance – as ludicrous as that might seem – she sure wasn't going to get it done here. She needed to be where the action at least _might_ be. And that was in the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire: the fabled city of music, Vienna.

She waited a couple more days for things to calm down a bit, and spent a bit more of that thick wad of money she'd pickpocketed on a couple of changes of clothing, as well as a small carpetbag to carry her things in. _I'm going to have to watch out_ , she thought ironically. _A few more possessions and I might start thinking I've got roots here or something._

Finally, on the Wednesday following the fateful day, she folded up her clothes and the blanket and put them into the bag, on impulse adding the water/wineskin and the remaining candles, then, on the First Principle of Hiding in Plain Sight: Give Them Something Else to Focus On, she also took off the kerchief for the first time in town, letting her distinctive, shoulder-length blonde hair swing freely. Firmly closing the door of the hut for the last time, she walked down into town and across to the train station, then waited in line behind several men at the ticket window until it was her turn.

And, for the first time, she ran into rampant chauvinism. The ticket seller, who had quite happily been chatting in German with the man directly before her, suddenly turned deaf and dumb in the language when it came to serving a mere woman. He kept looking right through her, as if expecting someone else to step up, his arrogant black eyes dismissing her as nothing. She was getting quite ready to reach through the bars and throttle him, when suddenly the scene was interrupted.

 _"Sonia?"_ The utterer of that thunderstruck name loomed up beside her, then, as she turned to stare at him, his face immediately cleared. "No, I'm sorry, forgive me," he went on in German. "I thought you were someone else."

He was about to step back again, graciously, making as if to get into line behind Rose, when suddenly the ticket seller perked up. Here was a man to do business with! "Bitte, mein Herr?"

Rose crossed her arms and glared at the agent; if looks could kill, by rights the worm should have been smeared on the floor. The new arrival looked back and forth between the two, somehow divining the situation. Perhaps he'd seen it played out before.

"Ja," he replied. "Two tickets to..." he turned to Rose, asking quietly, "Where are you going?"

"I'm _trying_ to get to Vienna," was her arch, clenched-teeth reply, still glaring over the counter.

"... to Vienna," he finished. He paid the fares, then turned away, placing a light hand on Rose's arm and pulling her along, too – by that time more passengers had joined the line, waiting.

"Here you are, Fraulein," he said kindly, handing her one of the tickets. He tried to refuse her repayment, but she insisted stiffly. She wasn't going to be beholden to anyone, even somebody with such dancing blue eyes, friendly, easygoing smile, and curly dark hair... _STOP that_ , she told herself firmly. _Nothing doing. I'm not interested._ Clutching her ticket firmly, she thanked him kindly one last time and turned away towards the platform.

She didn't see his amused eyebrow as he stood and watched her go.

^..^

The ticket turned out to be for First Class – something she hadn't noticed until the train came rumbling in to a stop. Poking through the First Class cars, she found an empty compartment and settled in, sighing, tossing her light bag up on the overhead rack. The train rattled out of the station ten minutes later, and she sat back to watch the gorgeous scenery.

Just then, the compartment door slid open again, and in came her benefactor. "Forgive me, Fraulein; there are no other empty seats." Which was a bald lie, but he said it so disengenuously, and she _did_ owe him... He heaved his rather heavier case up onto the other rack and sank into the seat opposite her, sighing theatrically, then held out his hand.

"Alex Toller, Fraulein."

Rose hesitated a split second, before she remembered that it was going to be at least a century before her name meant anything to _anybody_. "Rose. Rose Tyler." She shook his hand.

"Charmed... You're English?"

"Ja. Who is Sonia?" She asked to divert him.

He grinned. "My cousin. She looks like you from the back – same hair, same build. She lives in Salzburg – which is why it startled me so to see her in Sarajevo – I thought. But tell me, what brought you to that beautiful city so far from your own shores, Fraulein Tyler?"

She looked at him levelly for a moment. "My own business."

His eyebrows shot up, then both his hands darted to his chest, and he groaned dramatically, slumping over sideways, feigning a wound in a fencing duel. "Ooooh! A touch, a touch!"

Rose couldn't help smiling at his antics, and he straightened up again, smiling back. "That's better. All right, Madame Mysterious, keep your secrets. I won't pry."

 _Yeah, we'll see about that._ In the interests of staving him off, however, she turned to the tried and true method of interviewing him in return. And as she suspected, talking about himself was no problem at all for the animated extrovert. Alex Toller was a writer, it seemed, living in Vienna on a small inheritance – "God grant it holds out long enough to see me established" – and had in fact already made a bit of a name for himself selling stories to various magazines. He had been in Sarajevo at the invitation of a friend, to see the festival, and had written a piece on the attempted assassination of the Archduke and his Duchess, and already mailed it off to an interested editor back home. Naturally, the talk turned once again to the topic of the week, although Rose "couldn't" tell him anything new – only repeating what the German waiter had told her two days before, which was the word on the street.

An hour or two thus passed pleasantly. Suddenly Alex bounded to his feet. "I'm hungry! Let's eat! Shall we share lunch? What did you bring?" he asked Rose enthusiastically, as he pulled his bag down to the seat beside him and started taking out what looked like an entire picnic.

"Bring?" she asked faintly.

He looked at her sharply. "You didn't bring any food for the journey?"

She was lost. "I didn't know I needed to," she admitted softly.

Alex was flabbergasted. "How in the world did you get to – Never mind, Madame Mysterious." He sighed theatrically again – apparently his favorite method. "You know," he went on, picking up the loaf of thick, chewy bread and pulling off a large chunk, then holding it out to her across the aisle. "It's a good thing for you that I like my Cousin Sonia."

* * *

 **Glimpses of Happiness**

Over their shared picnic lunch, Alex suddenly changed the subject. "Tell me, have you ever been to Budapest? Or am I allowed to know that, Madame Mysterious?" he added, airily disingenuous.

She bit her lips to smother a teased smile. "No, I haven't been."

"No? Well, here's your chance, then! We have to change trains there – and in fact, I'm stopping off for a few days to visit some friends. Would you care to join us? I can show you the city – you won't find a better tour guide anywhere!"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "And what would it cost me?" she inquired.

Alex spread his hands wide, radiating innocence. "Nothing at all! No cost – and no strings," he added pointedly, showing that he knew exactly what she meant. "I give you my word, Fraulein Tyler, that my intentions are purely honorable. I am enjoying your company, and wish to prolong it, as well as introduce you to one of my favorite cities in the world." He quirked an eyebrow back at her. "Or do you have an appointment in Vienna?"

She looked out the window, biting her lips again, blushing, suddenly shy again. "No, no appointment," she said softly. _Nobody's waiting for me anywhere_ skittered through her head, dragging a tinge of sorrow behind it. Firmly banishing both thought and feeling, she turned back to her new friend. "I'd be delighted to join you."

His answering smile lit up the compartment. "Excellent!"

^..^

The train finally slipped into the Budapest main station well after midnight, and they were met by Alex's Hungarian friend, Mark, who bundled them into a waiting car and drove them to his house in the suburbs through the deserted streets of the sleeping city. Speaking in whispers so as not to wake his family, Mark showed them to a pair of bedrooms, with a bathroom just down the hall, then stumbled off to his own bed. Rose gratefully stepped out of her clothes, leaving them in an ungracious heap on the floor, slipped in between heavenly clean, crisp sheets, and had sunk into deep, dreamless slumber before she could have counted to ten.

She woke very late the next morning, having slept almost without moving for a good ten hours straight. Raising a bleary head, she stared around until the inevitable temporary confusion dissipated, then she sat up and studied the small, pleasant bedroom. An antique dresser was topped with a large lace doily and an array of crystal bottles under the oval mirror on the wall, while the rag rug on the floor and the thick, comfy quilt on the bed gave it a welcoming, homelike atmosphere. Then she grinned: someone had crept in while she was sleeping, and left a pile of fluffy towels on the chair. She took that as an invitation, and accepted it gleefully, luxuriating in a long, hot, soapy bath down the hall, the first time she'd really been able to get fully clean since her arrival in the past.

Choosing the least dirty of her three pitiful outfits, Rose wandered down the stairs and followed her nose and ears to the huge country kitchen at the back of the house, finding Alex dawdling over coffee and chatting with their hostess, who jumped up over Rose's protest and whipped up a truly amazing and delicious omelette for her on the spot.

Renata was a large, buxom woman with a friendly face ever-ready to break out in smiles and laughter, who showered affection and food on all who came within her sphere, family and visitors alike. The couple's four well-scrubbed young children kept her on her toes as they swirled through and around the house, entertaining the newborn baby – the excuse for Alex's visit – whenever he was awake and could be prized out of his mother's protective arms. Their father's return from work each afternoon was cause for a mini-celebration, complete with ritualistic recountings of childish adventures and plenty of affectionate embraces all around. Rose wasn't sure whether she'd stepped into a Renaissance painting or a television family drama, but she loved every minute, and squirreled away memories of the happy family life like touchstones for future use.

All told, they spent over a week in Budapest, and Alex made good his promise to show her all the sights, spending the days touring the castles and cathedrals, islands, parks, and the vibrant street scenes. He delivered her for one entire afternoon into the hands of the attendants at one of the city's world-famous hot spring spas, a glimpse of such decadent, sybaritic delights that she thought she might forgive him anything thereafter. The evenings were filled with talk and laughter, as Mark and Renata's wide circle of friends, all of them literary, artistic, and politically-minded, had the habit of dropping by their house to visit, sitting around the huge kitchen table sipping wine and eating Renata's delicious – and substantial – offerings, often staying until after midnight when the subject under debate was particularly engaging. The talk was mostly in Hungarian, and Rose found herself on the periphery, just listening to the sounds of the speech and watching their faces while she sipped her wine, or took her turn holding the baby. Alex and others would occasionally turn to her and apologize for excluding her, and try to switch to German, but she shook her head, waving them off self-deprecatingly. "I don't mind – I'm used to being invisible," she said.

Alex gave her a long, sympathetic look and then shook his head. "You're not invisible," he told her quietly, taking her hand, which made her smile shyly.

Of course, they tried to find out more about Alex's new companion, but all she told them was where she'd grown up: Southampton. When asked what she was doing in eastern Europe, all she would say was "Traveling. Just... traveling." After that, Alex's puckish title for her, Madame Mysterious, was spread about and used affectionately, but they let her be. They understood privacy, and the keeping of secrets, in Budapest.

The first evening, she caught Mark studying her from across the table, a look of puzzlement on his face. After a bit, he hooked an eyebrow up and commented softly, but with an odd emphasis, to Alex, "She reminds me of Sonia." Alex shook his head sharply as if denying it, then deliberately changed the subject. Rose was puzzled by the exchange, as he'd admitted the resemblance the very first moment they'd met, but let it go, distracted a moment later by the decadent chocolate dessert being passed around the table.

She could have happily stayed there forever, but finally, Alex admitted it was time he was getting back to Vienna. "And after all, we don't want to overstay our welcome!" he exclaimed graciously, bringing out the old saw about visitors and fish both stinking after a week.

"Three days, you mean?" Mark asked disingenuously, then grinned to show he didn't mean it. The deep affection the whole family had for their Viennese friend was genuine and obvious, and Rose felt immeasurably warmed by how easily they had extended it to her, and was forever grateful to them for it.

Nevertheless, all things must end, and so they reluctantly packed their bags again, let Renata pack a picnic big enough for an entire train car – or so Alex said, laughing – and Mark drove them once more to the station.

^..^

Sitting side by side, sharing a compartment with several strangers – the train really _was_ full, this time – Alex turned to Rose, strangely hesitant. "Rose... do you have a place to stay in Vienna?"

"No," she admitted.

"No one is expecting you?"

"No," she said again. "Why?"

He took a deep breath. "I would very much like to invite you to stay with me," he finally admitted. "But... there is a small problem."

"What?" she laughed. "A wife and six kids?"

Alex snorted. "No," he said emphatically, then turned concerned. "Although... that could also be a problem later on." Now Rose was really getting confused, especially when the usually ebullient and confident man actually blushed. "The problem is," he finally admitted, "that I live in a garret. A very small one. With but a single bed. One that... I would like very much to share with you," he finished earnestly, making his meaning plain.

It was Rose's turn to look away, blushing. But she was also smiling, which gave him a bit of hope. She started to reply, then suddenly stopped, shaking her head, diverted. "What did you mean about a wife being a problem later on? Are you engaged or something?"

"Um... actually... I meant the opposite... um... that it's _not_ part of the equation. And won't be. I'm just... not the marrying type."

"Good," she laughed, attracting attention to them. She lowered her voice again. "Because it's not part of my equation, either." She shook her head, sighing. "That is just not in the cards for you and me. In any possible world..." she added, her voice drifting off.

Alex's eyebrows shot up, and he nodded, surprised. "Excellent. Then we understand each other on that score." He paused, uncertainly licking his lips, then leaned over, conspiratorially. "Does that mean yes, then?"

She glanced away again, blushing once more, then finally looked back at him and nodded. "Yes. I'd like that," she accepted the invitation, and a slow, relieved smile spread across his face.

"Excellent," he repeated in a soft, happy whisper. And then he leaned over and kissed her, a short sweet kiss, short because of their glancing, grinning audience, but full of promise; promise that was borne out not only that night, but many nights thereafter. Alex was a tender, considerate, and exciting lover, in stark contrast to her only two previous: the sloppy, egocentric Jimmy Stones, and the autocratic Nazi General Schultz, who had literally bought her for a song by sponsoring her short-lived singing career. Alex, however, not only coaxed a warm, natural, enthusiastic responsiveness out of Rose, but over the next few months slowly began to convince her that she actually deserved the attention and the happiness it brought.

And gradually, she started to feel alive again.

* * *

 **A Child's Story**

Alex hadn't been kidding about his garret room: it really was _small_. Perched in the attic of a huge, groaning old mansion - long since subdivided into apartments - in the middle of a run-down, artsy district, the room was divided in two by virtue of the back half of the floor being raised two steps above the front, an oddity introduced by differences in the ceiling levels below. A very large mattress was simply laid on the raised floor and covered with a wildly mismatching assortment of pillows and blankets; the resulting bed doing double duty as a couch during the daytime. An old wooden door, propped across sawhorses and set against the back wall, served as Alex's desk, while a massive, beat-up old wardrobe for his few belongings, a Welsh dresser standing in for a dry stoveless "kitchen", and a small, square table with two mismatched chairs completed the furnishings. The closest bathroom was two floors below, shared between several apartments.

It was a private, heavenly retreat, up away from the noisy street far below. Two curtainless gable windows, one in each section, showing a view mostly of rooftops, treetops, and – further away – the taller monuments and buildings scattered throughout the city, also let the afternoon sun stream across the room in lazy beams. The house had benefited from the ongoing electrification of Vienna a few years earlier, and the garret boasted both an overhead light and a lamp on the desk, although Alex still kept candles around for the evening, finding the new electric bulbs too harsh for the end of the day. One night making love by candlelight turned Rose into a True Believer.

The next morning Alex introduced her to the routine of a poor Viennese writer. He took a large basket lined with a dish cloth down from the Welsh dresser, laid two huge empty ceramic mugs inside, and led her down the stairs to the street below, making a pit stop on the way. The cafe on the corner filled both mugs with fragrant Viennese coffee, and the basket with a couple of pieces of fruit and a pair of flaky croissants, which, it being a beautiful sunny day, they consumed a block away in the city park. Then they visited the market, reloading the basket with fruit, cheese, greens, smoked sausages, and freshly-baked bread, picked up a couple of bottles of wine and some local newspapers, then returned to the garret.

There, Alex turned to her, apologetically. He did need to work, after all, and planned to write up a story about the festival in Sarajevo, which the attempted assassination had only briefly interrupted, for one of the magazines. As he did all of his writing right there at his desk, he wouldn't be leaving her alone, but could she entertain herself quietly for a few hours?

"Of course!" she laughed. Between the newspapers and the dozens of books lining the edges of the room where the floor met each wall, most of them in German, she would be quite content. (Later on, she would let herself quietly out the door and explore the nearby neighborhoods of Vienna on foot.) That established the pattern for the coming weeks: breakfast at the park, the cafe, or back in the garret as weather or whim dictated; a few hours for Alex to write; then they would eat the morning's finds from the market before venturing out for the evening.

^..^

The first day, Alex leaned back in his chair after filling up several sheets of paper with his neat handwriting and stretched hugely, joints cracking – almost tipping over backward. He jerked upright again, catching the chair and causing the front legs to land on the floor again with a sharp crack, a move that looked suspiciously practiced, then turned his head and smiled at Rose on the bed.

"There. Finished. Would you like to read it?"

She would. And it was an amazing piece of journalism, for any time: pulling the reader in with vivid descriptions of the town, the festival, the several meanings behind it, and some of the people caught up in the celebration. Rose stood up with it again when she'd finished and stepped over to the desk to hand it back. "That was incredible, Alex. You really are a very, very talented writer!"

He grinned up at her for the praise, stretching his neck up to ask for a kiss, which she shyly gave him. Then, as he took the papers back to fold them up and tuck them into a pouch, she reached for another pile sitting on one end of the desk, curious. "What is this?"

"Oh..." he replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "It's nothing. Just a silly little project I've been working on. But I can't seem to get it to come out right."

"What is it? What kind of project?"

He glanced up at her as if to check her reaction. "It's a child's story book." Shaking his head deprecatingly, he added, "Just a fairy tale. It's not very good."

"May I read it?"

"Suit yourself," he shrugged again, pretending not to care. "Maybe you can tell me where I'm going wrong."

She took the papers back to the bed and settled in again, starting at the beginning. The first words leapt out at her: "The Tale of Little Wolf". As she read the first few pages, she got more and more confused.

"This is the story of _Bad_ Wolf!" Glancing up, she looked at Alex across the room, setting out their cold afternoon meal on the table. And that's when it hit her, swimming up from her own childhood memories. She gasped. "Alexander Toller. The creator of Bad Wolf."

The gasp attracted his attention, and he looked over his shoulder at her, bewildered in turn. "What?"

"Uh..." she floundered, then recovered. "Think how great that will sound, when they call you that!"

"But it's _Little_ Wolf, not _Bad_ Wolf."

"That's what I mean!" she shot back, surer now. "Bad Wolf is catchier. Anybody can write a story about a Little Wolf, and nobody will remember it. But they'll all remember Bad Wolf!"

"But she's _not_ bad, she's _good_!" He wasn't getting it.

"But that's the whole point! That's the inside joke, the secret!"

He scoffed. "Not much of a secret, if it's right there in a book that everybody can read."

She shook her head. "You don't understand how kids' minds work, Alex. You give them a secret in a book or a..." Oops. She'd almost said 'TV show', and had to recover. "... a fairy tale, and they'll think they're the only ones in the world who know it – or one of the few. They'll become members of an exclusive club."

Alex had stopped fiddling at the table, standing up straight and staring at her. "Really?"

"Trust me." She bit her lips to hide a knowing smile, full of amusement at seeing – helping – the birth of the most famous fairy tale in her world.

He stepped over to the bed, holding out his hand for the papers, which she handed to him. He scanned the first couple of pages, thinking hard. " _Bad_ Wolf?" he checked with her, and she nodded, smiling that supernova smile.

"Now you're getting it."

Lost in the story, planning out the hundred ideas that blossomed instantly in his creative mind, he turned wordlessly back to his desk, sitting down and reaching for a fresh sheet of paper without looking. Within seconds, he was once again hard at work, writing furiously, chasing the inspiration she'd given him.

Rose laid back and smiled dreamily, drifting off to sleep to the sound of his pen scratching across the paper.

* * *

 **Three-Quarter Time**

One of the two best things about living in Vienna, Rose decided, was the free Sunday afternoon concerts in the parks – plural. At least half of the green spaces in the city had their outdoor bandstand and rows of wooden benches, and most of them were filled each week with various orchestras, bands, ensembles, or solo artists – many of the latter impromptu performances by an enthusiastic amateur. The starting times for each concert were somewhat staggered, so a dedicated citizen could catch two or three each Sunday, and they lasted well into the fall, until it became simply too cold to sit for more than a few minutes, and even the musicians' fingers began turning blue.

When Alex discovered that Rose knew nothing about classical music, he made it his weekly mission to educate her, seeking out the "best" programs and introducing her to the works of Beethoven, Bach, and Brahms – and Haydn, lest she forget the other letters of the alphabet. Under his tutelage, she could soon speak reasonably knowledgeably about forms, styles, tempos, and rhythms; her former life as a one-time pop singer at last coming in handy and providing some background info.

The other best thing about Vienna, of course, was the cafe culture. Each afternoon, after Alex was finished writing for the day, and they had consumed the morning's finds from the marketplace, they indulged in that most Viennese of traditions. Alex had a surprisingly wide circle of friends from all walks of life, who perambulated without discernible pattern between more than half a dozen cafes within walking distance of the garret. Each evening the pair would pick a cafe almost at random, and go see who else had appeared. There, they would pull the tables together to make one huge circle, and talk about every subject under the sun until past midnight, sipping wine or coffee and nibbling on whatever snacks the cafe had to offer.

Vienna was a cosmopolitan, polyglot city, but the conversations at "their" cafes were usually mostly in German, so this time, Rose could follow along, and as the weeks went by, with Alex's gentle encouragement, she started becoming confident enough to occasionally join in. Alex's friends were of course curious about his new "companion" – more than one remarked at their surprise; apparently she was the first woman he'd been publicly paired with, at least for some time – but she answered no questions about her past, and they soon simply accepted her (somewhat mysterious) presence.

The conversations often became lively debates, and even friendly – and occasionally heated – arguments, but Rose only witnessed Alex actually lose his temper and become truly angry a handful of times. Always, they were when some of the more outspoken of the circle started in with their harsh anti-Semitic views. Rose had been taken aback when she first encountered that part of Viennese life, and never became comfortable with the open racism. Alex refused to engage in arguing about it, however, preferring – on the few times when he didn't manage to change the subject – to simply take Rose's arm and depart the cafe for another more congenial atmosphere.

"I've got a few drops of Jewish blood myself," he admitted to her the second time they beat a silent, dignified exit, "but even if I didn't, I have no patience for that kind of hatred."

"I'm glad," she sympathized, tucking her hand in his arm.

Whenever they switched venues like that – and on other occasions – he would steer her to the furthest cafe on their route, one whose portion of the circle of friends didn't circulate like the others, preferring to stay in place. Unsurprisingly, they were Jewish scholars and businessmen ("Don't worry," he whispered to her the first time they went, "they're not Orthodox; they'll let you in," and they did, welcomingly), and as often as not, Alex and Rose would walk in to find them engaged in the endless debate over bits of the Talmud. Alex could often coax them into a change of subject – and just as often, it would turn to the second most popular subject: the eternal wish for a Jewish homeland. The debate swirled around the feasibility of establishing – or re-establishing – one in Palestine, or one of the many other locations around the world which had been proposed at one time or another. But always, the others were dismissed, and talk returned to Jerusalem and the Holy Land.

"Why not Western Sahara?" Rose put in suddenly one evening, when she realized she hadn't heard that name once.

"Where?" one of the scholars asked sharply. "You mean Uganda? No, Herzl and the Congress already turned it down," he informed her, referring to the World Jewish Congress and its famous (now deceased) Zionist leader, meeting a few years before. He started to turn back to the others, dismissing her, but she interrupted again.

"No, not Uganda. Western Sahara. Southwest of Morocco. You know...?"

No, they didn't. But then one of them called for an atlas, which the owner of the cafe had behind the bar along with many other reference books (one of the hazards of running a meeting place habituated by scholars), and they poked their fingers at the map.

"It's all desert!" one cried.

"And Palestine isn't?" Rose asked sardonically.

"True, true," came the grinning reply.

It was just dawning on Rose that no, actually, that area hadn't ever been discussed before as a potential homeland for the world's scattered Jewish population. Then two of the scholars volunteered to find out more information about it, and the group agreed to discuss it further, and Rose went home with Alex that night wondering if she'd just witnessed – just _caused_ – the beginning of a new country. If so, it would blossom in _her_ parallel, not Alpha, and the thought made her feel as if the future was just a tiny bit closer that night.

^..^

It took several weeks, all together, for Alex to re-write his children's story to his satisfaction, working at it in between his regular assignments ("I _do_ still have to earn a living," he reminded her). Rose read his progress at his request each day, and continued making small suggestions, nudging it closer and closer to what she remembered. He joked that he was going to have to put her name as co-author, but she protested strongly at that, and he let it go. Finally, it was ready, and he took it to a publisher friend tied in oiled paper for protection.

He came back from that meeting walking on air. "He liked it! He said it was very good – they accepted it for publication! And they want me to write another one!"

The celebration that night at the cafe was loud and jubilant, with everyone congratulating the author, plying him with champagne. (He was useless for work the next day from the hangover, but she babied him through a quiet day in bed instead, which arrangement satisfied both of them.) The collaboration on the next story, about a grown-up Bad Wolf and how she found her mate, whom Rose suggested should be named Blue Wolf for his blue-tinged grey fur and piercing blue eyes, commenced immediately.

A few weeks later, Alex came home from another meeting with the publisher with a surprise for Rose: a copy of the first book, beautifully bound and illustrated by an artist contracted by the company. Alex grinned at her, opening up the volume to the dedication page. It read:

 _For Madame Mysterious_

Rose was momentarily speechless.

"Thank you," she finally managed to say. "I'll treasure this always."

Then she grinned back. "But you know what you ought to do now? Send this out to publishers in other countries. I'm positive you could get this printed in England, for instance, and the United States, as well."

"But we'd need to translate it to English first!" he protested automatically. "Who could we find..." His voice trailed off as he noticed her crossed arms and sardonic expression. "Oops. I forgot. You're English."

"Yeah. And I _think_ I remember how to speak the language, even." She grinned at him again, her tongue peeking out from between her teeth, and let him off the hook.

And so they worked side by side for several days, Alex working on the next story while she carefully translated the first, always keeping the language simple enough for children to read. Even though she knew the story as well as anyone, she didn't try to remember the actual words in her old child's book, but instinctively tried to simply tell it in her own words, keeping as close as she could to the German original. Then they wrote out several copies, and mailed them off to various publishers in both countries, with a letter of introduction supplied by Alex's original publisher in Vienna. "Now we just wait and see if anyone bites," he sighed.

^..^

December had arrived, and Christmas was approaching. Rose was excited about the holiday for the first time she could remember, looking forward to the festivities and the many musical concerts (indoors this time). Even the atmosphere in the cafes each evening was lighter and more joyful, the arguments fewer and farther between.

Until the evening that a young man burst through the cafe doors, his face white with shock, yelling the news at the top of his lungs.

"The Emperor is dead! They've assassinated Franz Joseph!"

* * *

 **Distant Drums**

Instant pandemonium reigned in the cafe, until somebody shouted everyone else down. "What are you talking about?" the young man was asked.

Before he could reply, though, the cafe owner simply flipped on his newfangled radio, and turned the volume up as high as it would go. Everyone crowded around, listening to the wrenching broadcast, the details as they trickled in relayed in hushed and disbelieving tones to the shocked and grieving audience.

… _Emperor Franz Joseph, ruler of the Austro-Hungarian Empire for the past sixty-six years, dead at eighty-four..._

 _...a bomb exploded under his car en route to his home..._

 _...another tossed in immediately through the broken windows before the police escort shot the assailants dead..._

 _...the Emperor killed instantly by the second bomb, along with his aide and driver..._

 _...heir apparent Archduke Franz Ferdinand rushed to the palace to oversee the investigation..._

 _...the assassins believed to be Serbian ultra-nationalists, yelling irredentist slogans as they threw the bombs, possibly the same ring which attempted to assassinate the Archduke the previous June..._

The entire cafe remained utterly silent for an untold time, huddled around the radio. Finally, they announcer said no more news would be forthcoming that night, and signed off by asking the nation to say a prayer for the soul of the late Emperor, and for divine guidance and protection of the new one.

The patrons looked at each other, seeing their own shock reflected on every face. Conversation consisted only of a few murmured, broken words. Soon people began drifting silently away towards their homes, and Alex took Rose's arm to do the same.

Out in the street, he stopped and turned towards her, concerned. "Are you all right, Rose? You're as white as a sheet!"

She looked at him, dazed, feeling the earth ripple under her feet, the air by turns freezing and searing her lungs. Her hands crept to his chest and she huddled close, wordlessly asking for him to hold her – and he did, his arms circling her firmly, anchoring her to reality.

Finally, she gathered enough wit to whisper, "I'm afraid of war. I'm afraid of seeing the whole world go up in flames."

He scoffed, gently. "There's no talk of war... Where did you get that from?"

She pushed back a few inches so she could look directly into his face. "Alex... think. If those were Serbian nationalists, if they were from Serbia, what will happen? What will Austria do?"

He hesitated, floundering a bit. "Make demands for restitution, justice..."

"And if Serbia can't, or won't, agree?"

He shook his head. "We'll probably attack. But only a limited, punitive engagement. That's hardly involving the entire world, Rose."

"So Austria and Serbia will be at war – and do you really think it will stay a limited engagement, with both sides looking for an excuse ever since Bosnia was annexed?" She shook her own head back at him. "No, it will be a full-out war as soon as it starts. They _murdered our_ _Emperor_ , Alex. The army won't hold back. They'll be out to slaughter the enemy in revenge. And then Russia will join in because they have a treaty with Serbia, and then France will start making noises because they have one with Russia, and Germany will step in on Austria's side and attack both France and Russia, and the British, and the Italians, and the Americans... Alex, the _entire world_ is interconnected, with treaties, and secret agreements, and national interests..." She stopped suddenly, biting her lips. "They'll all fall like dominoes..." she ended in a prophetic whisper, bereft of hope, echoing her words to the Archduke so many months before.

Alex's face had slowly drained of blood at her recitation, the truth of her words dolefully tolling in his mind like a cathedral bell. He stood silently for a full minute, absorbing it, then took a good, close look at his companion again, his eyebrows knitted together. "Why do I have the strangest feeling, that you actually know what you're talking about?" He winced, giving his head a quick shake. "Sorry, that came out wrong – "

She cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. She knew what he meant. Still looking earnestly, deeply into his eyes, she told him with quiet emphasis, "Because I do."

He stared at her a moment longer, then finally took a deep, painful breath. "Well," he said, searching for a way out. "I pray God you're wrong, and that our new Emperor – God save him – can chart a course between the dominoes, so that they do not fall." Reaching up between them, he took her hands in his and squeezed them.

She nodded agreement, squeezing his hands back, then letting go of one and turning with him to continue down the street towards home. "Pray God he can – he's the only one who can stop the machinery of war."

^..^

After they reached home and silently went to bed, holding each other close for comfort, Rose waited until he was sound asleep and then crept softly back out from under the blanket again. Opening the door of the wardrobe, she carefully dug into the pile of clothes at the bottom, located her old blue jeans, and reached into the pocket for the time jumper she'd hidden there months before. She held her breath a moment, almost in prayer, and then flipped open the leather cover and unlocked the keypad.

Just as she knew it would be, the backlight was still white – although it was a dull, clouded white now, seeming in the reflected moonlight to be pulsing in time with her heartbeat, the tiniest, barely perceptible tinge of color trying to infiltrate the snowy field – and failing. She was still in Alpha. Preventing Franz Ferdinand's assassination hadn't stopped the tide of history; the inertia of the timeline, struggling to return to its rightful channel, was impelling the continent toward the war it needed to continue, but that so few of its inhabitants wanted to see.

She sighed, and locked the keypad up again – but instead of returning the jumper to its hiding place, she strapped it back onto her wrist, hiding it with her winter-long sleeves from that moment on.

^..^

"Rose..." Alex said hesitantly the next morning. "I've been thinking about something, a phrase you said last night. I can't get it out of my head. 'The machinery of war...' "

"Well, it _is_ a machine," she replied. "Not just the army itself, and every man in it – though that's huge enough – but every part of the government that oversees it; the vast, interlocking industries that support it, arm it, supply it; all the so-called diplomats that work behind the scenes in every country to keep it going..." She paused a moment to let that vision sink in. "Once it gets started, once it's in motion, it can't be stopped – not very easily. Maybe not at all."

He stared thoughtfully across the room. "I never though about it that way," he admitted softly. She could almost see the proverbial wheels turning in his head, as he considered his world from an entirely new angle.

She gave him a moment, then nudged his side. "Come on. Let's go get breakfast, and find out what's new."

^..^

One week later, they joined what seemed to be the entire population of Vienna on the street, lining the route of Franz Joseph's funeral procession in silent, still, respectful masses tens of thousands strong. They lined each street, packed in elbow to elbow, and stretched back down the cross-streets for a block on either side. Rose would not have thought so many people could be so quiet, but the horses drawing the military caisson bearing his ornate casket clopping down the cobblestones, and the slow, measured, unison tromp of hundreds of boots from the military escort, were literally the only distinct sounds aside from the occasional muffled sobs from the crowd as the body passed.

Immediately following the caisson and the Royal Guardsmen surrounding it came the long procession of imperial and international mourners who had gathered to lay the Emperor to rest: a glittering collection of kings, emperors, tsars, presidents, and every rank from every country on the continent and beyond. They rode to the Cathedral on row after row of pacing horses, interspersed with old-fashioned, ornate horse-drawn carriages, each vehicle's top respectfully folded down even in the cold. The heavens had blessed the late Emperor with a perfect winter day for his funeral: a brilliant but distant sun shone in the pale blue sky, keeping the temperature above freezing – though not by much, while the air was not stirred by even the tiniest breeze.

The first carriage, of course, carried the new, as-yet-uncrowned Emperor, Franz Ferdinand, and his wife, the Duchess Sophie, both staring regally straight ahead, their faces expressionless, but their mournful dignity almost palpable. The slightest, tiniest murmur swept through the watching crowd in their wake, only barely enough to register in anyone's hearing until it reached them. The second they were past, Alex leaned over and breathed into Rose's ear, "Oh, my, my. That will set the cat among the pigeons."

"Why? What...?" She was genuinely perplexed, having seen absolutely nothing that struck her as wrong, but instantly aware that Alex would not have broken protocol – let alone the thousands around them likewise murmuring – for anything truly trivial.

"She's riding with him. That's not been allowed."

Rose was shocked. "But she's his _wife_."

"Morganatic." When that word obviously meant nothing to her, he went on. "She's not of royal blood. She was given a title, though not a royal one, and she's never been allowed to take any precedence. He had to swear an oath that she would never be Empress, and their children would never be in the line of succession, before he was even allowed to marry her. Up until today, she's always had to be at the back of the line, while he was up front."

"But she rode with him in Sarajevo."

He shook his head. "That was different. That was a military visit, so the normal rules didn't apply." Alex tipped his head at the first of the Austrian nobles in the carriages following the royal couple, their faces stony – but angry-looking. "He's upset a whole lot of apple carts today. Looks like he's setting some new precedents."

"Good for him," Rose replied emphatically with a small, approving smile, seeing in her mind's eye how much the couple had obviously loved, respected, and depended on each other, back in the hut on the hill above Sarajevo.

Then she sighed, quietly. _He's going to have to do a whole hell of a lot more than elevate Sophie if we're going to get out of this mess – and I'm ever going to get home again._

* * *

 **The General**

The days following Franz Joseph's magnificent funeral had passed in a blur for Rose, who kept feeling as if she should be doing something, but hadn't a clue in the world what. The time jumper weighed so heavily on her wrist that she could have sworn she was dragging her arm down the street behind her, but she couldn't seem to sit still for more than a few minutes at a stretch. Eternally restless, she took to taking long walks around Vienna by herself while Alex took his paper and pen with him to the cafes every day, by turns soaking up the news and attitudes of these historic, chaotic times, and distilling them onto paper.

More often than not, Rose found her feet had taken her near the vast, sprawling, magnificent Hofburg Palace, the official residence of the Emperor, the headquarters of various parts of his government, and – currently – the temporary lodgings of the royal visitors who had come for the funeral. Each day saw more of them depart in state and style after meetings and conferences, both private and public, with each other and the new Emperor. Franz Ferdinand himself was often spotted in courtyards or through windows, walking with the German Kaiser or the British King or another head of state, speaking earnestly, listening intently, his new status as one of the highest rank in the world seeming to cloak him visibly with an unfamiliar assurance and dignity. His subjects hadn't been very fond of him up to this point: the strange, moody, difficult man with his lower-status wife, but they were coming to accept him now, watching as he quietly, unassumingly took the stage and somehow made it his own.

Finally, a long week later, all the guests had finally departed, and life in Vienna was poised to return to normal – except for the question hanging shroudlike over the once-vibrant city, of who had been ultimately responsible for the late Emperor's murder. All signs pointed to Serbian involvement, and the world waited and watched to see what the Austrians were going to do about it.

The next day, Rose simply _could not sit still_. As if needles were being jabbed into all parts of some voodoo doll of herself simultaneously, she jerked and twitched repeatedly as she tried to sit beside Alex at their favorite cafe for their usual breakfast. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she told him finally. "I just have to be moving. I'm sorry. I'm going to go for a walk and try to calm down. Will you be here?" Alex agreed that he would likely stay put, or go back to the garret later, and she tossed him a kiss, then slipped out into the street on feet that were tingling as if their circulation had just been restored.

Drawn unerringly to the Hofburg once more, she found herself in front of the Amalienburg wing, transformed in the last decade into the offices of the Austrian military headquarters, including its greatly influential Chief of Staff. General Franz Conrad von Hotzendorf had performed the same duties for the late Emperor for many years, and although the word on the street said his days were likely numbered, the new Emperor hadn't gotten around to replacing him quite yet. The man himself, known now to Rose from his pictures in the recent newspapers, appeared at a large second-story window as she watched, gazing down with a blank, courtier's expression on the small, subdued crowd pausing beyond the gates – then he suddenly swiveled around and bowed stiffly, as his new monarch appeared beside him in the window. A few words were exchanged, then the General bowed again and departed on some mission. Franz Ferdinand glanced out the window for a long moment – Rose could almost have sworn he looked straight at her, but she was likely too far away and lost in the crowd for recognition – then turned and walked away from the window and out of sight.

Driven suddenly by an overwhelming impulse, Rose turned too and walked across the street to a covered walkway, tucking herself behind a pillar. She didn't know why, but she knew she had to get into that building. Peeking out, she used every bit of concentration to try to estimate the distance between her spot and the window, nervously added a dozen more feet, and punched coordinates into the time jumper, leaving the time alone. Closing her eyes, she held her breath, and punched Activate before she could change her mind.

The odd, stretching-squeezing sensation that always accompanied the transport gave way to an equally smothering, closed-in feeling at the other end. Opening her eyes, she panicked for a moment at the utter blackness of whatever space she'd jumped into, bumping her head on an unseen object and feeling heavy cloth brushing her shoulders on either side. A hand darting out before her met solid wood, then, turning her head swiftly, she caught a hint of light near her feet out of the corner of her eye. Turning fully to look, she discovered a horizontal bar of light a few inches behind her, and suddenly things fell into place. She'd jumped into a coat closet.

Furious, exasperated and relieved all at once, she leaned against the back wall and made herself take several deep breaths as quietly as she could, trying to slow her panicked heartbeat. Then, getting control, she leaned forward, felt for the knob, and slowly, quietly eased the door open a crack.

She'd actually done it perfectly: a few feet to her right Franz Ferdinand sat behind an enormous desk, silently perusing some documents before him. Her closet was on the opposite side of the room from the window she had seen him through moments before. A winter's fire was crackling softly with appropriate decorum in a huge, ornate fireplace behind him on that end of the room. Easing the door open an inch further, she saw two heavy, brocaded armchairs sitting canted on the wide Persian carpet before the desk for visitors, then an empty space yawned between their backs and the door to the office on her left.

Should she step out and speak? Surely there was _some_ reason she'd been drawn to this spot, this time. There had to be _something_ here she had to do.

While she debated with herself, the door to the office opened, readmitting General Conrad; a tall, impressive man who oozed military precision, the haughty, imperious expression in his eyes the perfect counterpart to his white walrus mustache. Rose caught a glimpse of a uniformed, armed man on guard at the portal, as well as a small number of civilians busy at their desks in the outer office, as the General smartly clicked the door shut, then marched across the room, his face carefully blank, and stood stiffly at attention between the two chairs, waiting for his superior's acknowledgment. Rose only then noticed the name plate on the desk: "General Conrad". She bit back a grin at the carefully contrived, subtle show of power by the Emperor: the casual commandeering of the Chief of Staff's private office. When the Emperor at last looked up, Conrad gave him a snappy salute with one hand and held out the papers he was holding in the other. "The proposed demands to the Serbian government, Your Majesty," he announced formally.

Still expressionless, Franz Ferdinand nodded release of the salute, then mutely took the papers and began to read them, leaving the General standing at attention like a private. Rose watched as a red tinge crept up the General's neck, but he remained stock still, staring over the Emperor's head at the mantel, waiting; the very image of formal military courtesy.

About halfway down the first page, Franz Ferdinand took up the pen on the desk and scratched out several lines, writing other words in between them. Conrad's eyes slid down to the page to watch, and his back stiffened even further. The process was repeated several more times on the three pages, then finally the Emperor gathered them up again and held them out.

"You will make these changes, General."

Rose thought Conrad's eyes were about to bug out of his head. He didn't immediately move to take the papers, but instead took a sharp breath and began, obviously choosing his words of protest with as much delicacy as he could manage, "Your Majesty, the demands were most carefully crafted – "

"I'm aware that you wrote them, Conrad. And I'm aware of your motivations. I am countermanding them. The demands were too harsh, and not meetable by the Serbians. They were a thinly-disguised prelude to war – war which I will not rush into." Although his voice was calm and level, Rose could hear the steel behind the words, and knew that Conrad did, as well.

The red had made it onto the General's face. "Your Majesty," he choked out between clenched teeth. "The swine _murdered_ your uncle."

Franz Ferdinand slowly lowered the papers, which Conrad still had not reached to take, back to the desk, and rose majestically to his feet, never breaking eye contact with the other man. His voice dropped several degrees in temperature. "I am aware of that. And they will be punished – severely. But I _will not_ rush headlong into military action, for which we are unprepared, and which will inevitably drag every country on this continent into war through their interlocking treaties." Rose gave a tiny knowing smile at this – her royal pupil had learned the lessons of the book she'd given him very well indeed.

The proud, patriotic General could not believe what he was hearing. He struggled silently for a moment, then rasped out, teeth still clenched, "Since Your Majesty has so little confidence in my counsel, and my military leadership, then I will tender my resignation immediately."

"No, you will not," countered the Emperor flatly. "It will not be accepted." He paused a moment, then relaxed his voice the slightest bit, inviting reconciliation. "I do not completely trust you, Conrad; we both know that is true. But you are a valuable servant to the crown, whom I would be a fool to release over a minor disagreement such as this."

Conrad was in no mood to take the olive branch. "Yet you ignore my counsel, my experience. This is hardly a minor matter, Your Majesty. What we do now will reflect upon us all. If we do not act swiftly and harshly, and squash the Serbian insect, then everything your uncle worked for – everything all of the Habsburgs worked for since the establishment of the Empire – will all be lost, along with every wisp of our national and personal honor. I will not stand silently by while you throw all of that away."

Franz Ferdinand's eyes narrowed. " _I_ will be the guardian of my honor, General, and the honor of _my_ Empire. And I say again, I will not rush into a dangerous, debilitating war, not when the entire continent is teetering on the edge."

"Then let me resign," Conrad said flatly, "since you do not trust me."

"No. You will not resign. What you will do, General, is follow your orders, until this crisis has passed. After that, _then_ you may resign. But not now. For now, I want you where I can see you." He paused a moment, tilting his head back imperiously and considering the slowly-purpling face of the man before him. "In fact, I will have your oath of loyalty, today. I will hear you swear that you will follow orders faithfully until I relieve you of duty."

Conrad was speechless. "You... my _oath_?" he spluttered.

"Before witnesses." Franz Ferdinand countered calmly. Raising his voice a notch, he called out a name – presumably one of the men in the outer office.

Conrad didn't seem to hear. Fury contorted his handsome features as his head began shaking No, this ultimate insult to his honor – as he saw it – ringing in his ears. "No, I will _not_..." Even as the door began to swing open behind him, he suddenly opened his coat, and reached for a pistol holstered at his hip.

The instant she saw the gun, before she could consciously choose to react, Rose was in motion. Flinging the door wide, she launched herself out of the closet with a foot on the wall behind her, and lunged for the General, grabbing his arm with both hands. Dimly aware of the _deja vu_ from Sarajevo, she pushed desperately, forcing the pistol out of line with the Emperor. Conrad gaped at this woman who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere for a long, frozen moment, then instantly pushed back with that arm, tearing her pitifully weak grasp off his arm and shoving her violently across the intervening chair, where she tumbled to the floor beside the desk. Rolling swiftly back over, Rose froze for a moment, gasping in horror as he re-aimed the gun, holding it out at arm's length towards the Emperor, who, incredibly, hadn't moved an inch, staring wide-eyed at the man he wisely hadn't trusted.

The General's finger tightened on the trigger, and the pistol's roar filled the office.

But the Emperor didn't fall.

Instead, it was Conrad who jerked, whose face transformed, whose mouth slipped open, dribbling blood, whose arm wavered and fell, whose eyes turned glassy then rolled up into his skull, before he toppled bonelessly to the floor...

...revealing the guard behind him, his own eyes wide and unbelieving at what he'd just done, peering past his own pistol at his superior on the floor. He'd reacted instantly to the scene, without thinking, drawing and firing his sidearm in a flash to save his Emperor.

Silence reigned in the little office as the echoes slowly died, everyone staring in utter shock, from the Emperor behind the desk to Rose on the floor, to the guard at the door, to the men crowding behind him, peering into the room with jaws agape at the former Chief of Staff and almost assassin, lying dead with his unfired pistol in his hand.

Finally, Franz Ferdinand got a hold of himself, taking a deep breath and thanking the guard simply, who merely nodded stiffly, swallowing hard and shakily reholstering his pistol. The Emperor pointed to the men clustered at the door, telling them to take the body away, then he immediately stopped them again. "Gentlemen, the General has had a sudden, fatal stroke. You understand? There is no reason to besmirch his good name, his lifelong loyal service to the Empire, with taint of treason after his death."

The men looked at him, and nodded, agreeing to the implicit conspiracy of silence, before picking up the body and carrying it out the door.

"And the woman, Your Majesty?" the guard spoke up after they had gone.

"What woman?" the Emperor returned flatly, staring hard at the guard, not glancing at Rose. "There is no woman."

The man's eyes slid quickly to her once more before he jerked them back and nodded, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind himself once more. Rose realized only then that the other men hadn't even noticed her there on the floor, their view blocked by the chair she had been thrown over.

Franz Ferdinand let his breath out in a long, silent sigh of relief, wilting down onto his chair at last. Only then did he turn to Rose. "Mein Gott in Himmel," he breathed. "Are you now my guardian angel? Do you intend to jump between me and every bullet?"

"Don't count on it," she said, before breaking into a helpless, hysterical giggle.

He joined her a beat later, his face cracking into the first smile she'd ever seen on it, before he quickly got control of himself again. She began to push herself up off the floor, and he jumped back to his feet to offer her his hand and help her up. Then he stood there, holding her hand, gazing into her eyes.

"Thank you again, Fraulein," he said simply. "I don't even want to know how and why you are here."

"You're welcome, Your Majesty," she replied with her supernova smile. As there was nothing more to be said, she shook his hand, then lightly released it, stepped back, raised her arm with the time jumper, and punched herself back out to the street.

* * *

 **The Long Road Home**

After that, the rest of the story seemed almost anti-climactic to Rose. The Serbian government acquiesced meekly to most of the harsh demands, and the few they had reservations over Franz Ferdinand allowed to be hashed out in a conference in neutral Athens, sending his hand-picked representatives there with strict orders to be as punitive as they dared without backing either side into a corner that would precipitate military action. He also took advantage of the sudden, unexpected death of the Chief of Staff, General Conrad, to make the needed changes at the top, and appointed several trusted, able men to key positions in his new government.

Within days of the signing of the resulting Treaty of Athens, the new Emperor stunned the world again with a series of pronouncements: first forcing his vision of a federalist Austrian empire, granting semi-autonomy to the various regions and ethnic groups within the Austro-Hungarian borders, past the resistance of those in power under him who still clung to the old totalitarian methods; then proposing talks towards forging an actual independent Pan-Serbian country from the recently annexed Bosnia-Herzegovina _and_ independent Serbia, to be named Yugoslavia; and most astonishing of all, the signing of the first tentative agreements between his government and those of several of the other major European powers towards the creation of a new supra-national body of arbitration which would supersede individual treaties. The League of Nations was struggling to be born.

Finally, about a week after the last, with the time jumper still trying to change its color every time she checked, came the announcement that the last major continental holdout to the League of Nations, the Russian Tsar Nicholas II, had tossed his wild-eyed, dubious adviser Rasputin out into the cold and signed the agreement.

The cafe they were sitting in – indeed, the entire City of Music – erupted in wild cheers when the word came over the radio. Many who had reacted doubtfully to the new Emperor's ideas at first had over time come around to support them wholeheartedly, disavowing their former resistance avidly. Rose and Alex joined the toasts and singing with tears in their eyes, giddy with joy.

Rose didn't even think to check the jumper again until they straggled home, long after midnight, and she stopped off at the bathroom below the garret. There she held her breath, slowly pulling up her sleeve, opened the jumper, and unlocked it.

The backlight was glowing vivid purple. Her own timeline had been split off from Alpha, for good and for certain. She could go home again.

 _And Alex?_ came the question. A wistful, tender smile crossed her lips. No. Oh, she was _very_ fond of him, and grateful for all he'd done, but she wasn't in love with him, nor he with her, she knew. They had both lived up to their promises on the train: that wasn't in the cards for the two of them.

Slowly climbing up the last flight of stairs, she opened the garret door and discovered Alex standing stock still in the middle of the floor, reading a piece of paper – a letter had been slipped under the door while they were out. She couldn't see his face, as he was facing away, but it struck her, hard, that his hand was trembling.

"Alex?" she asked softly. "What is it?"

He jerked, gasped, then swiftly folded the paper up and stuffed it into a pants pocket. "Nothing," he mumbled, then turned and slipped past her before she could get a good look at his face, muttering about his turn in the bathroom. She stared at the now-empty doorway, gaping for a moment, then shook her head. Whatever it was, it was his secret, and she wouldn't pry.

Looking around the room she'd grown to love, and come alive again within, she smiled wistfully. She kicked off her shoes and padded around the room, lighting all the candles, then flicked off the electric lights. Then she got undressed, and slipped under the covers to wait.

He took a very long time in the bathroom, but finally the door opened again and let him in. He stopped in the middle of the room, looking at the candles with an unreadable expression, and she held out a hand to him. "Come here," she whispered. He looked soulfully at her, then seemed to make up his mind, slipped out of his clothes and dropped them in a heap on the floor, and joined her. They made love slowly, tenderly, bathed in combined candlelight and moonlight. Rose knew she was telling him goodbye, but somehow... it felt like he knew it, and was replying with the same.

She didn't figure out why until much later, after he'd fallen asleep. Alex was lying on his back, one arm around her as she laid with her head on his shoulder, watching his chest rise and fall with each soft, slow breath, prolonging the inevitable. Then he slipped into a dream, twitching and moaning softly. And finally his mouth opened, and he moaned a name.

Not hers.

"Sonia. Sonia!" he cried softly, longing soaking through the words.

 _Sonia? His cousin?_ Rose raised her head off his shoulder and gazed at him, perplexed. Then, remembering, she slipped gently out from under the covers, scooped up his pants where he'd dropped them, and poked her hand in the pocket. The letter was still there. She pulled it out and carried it over to the window, the full moon shining through it giving ample light for reading.

The words scrawled crookedly across the paper seemed breathless, desperate; thoughts skittering across the surface of a mind driven to distraction like cold water droplets on a hot skillet.

 _Alex, my darling:_

 _Fritz is dead. The foolish, foolish man thought he could handle the motorcar, even on the icy mountain roads. Am I wicked for thinking only that now I am free? He was not a bad man, he always treated me kindly, but I should never have let them bully me into marrying him._

 _Alex, I don't care what anyone thinks any more, I don't care what they say or do to me. You are the only man I have ever loved, the only man I will ever love. Please tell me it is not too late. Tell me that you haven't found someone else. Tell me I still have a chance for happiness in this world. Tell me that you forgive me for being too weak to stand up to Papa and Mama in defense of you – of us._

 _Write to me, Alex, and tell me you still love me! If I do not hear from you soon, I don't know what I will do. Yes, I do: I will come to Vienna myself, and win you back from whatever floozy thinks she can love you as well as I. No one ever can, no one ever will._

 _Forgive me, my darling! I am only yours, forever more!_

 _Sonia_

By the time she reached the end, tears were slipping down Rose's own face, feeling the desperate love of this other woman she apparently partially resembled. She looked back at the now-silent form of the sleeping man on the bed, smiling fondly at him.

"Alex, old buddy," she whispered, much too softly to disturb him, "I think you just became the marrying kind."

She laid Sonia's letter on the little table, opened up so he would know she had seen it, and fetched a blank sheet of paper from the desk for her own note.

 _Alex:_

 _You're on your way, and I must be on mine. Consider Blue Wolf my wedding present to you both. Thank you for rescuing me, and for teaching me how to laugh again._

 _Rose_

She silently skimmed on her old blue jeans and her favorite blouse, and shoes. She looked at her little carpet bag and her other clothes and shrugged. She wasn't usually a skirt-wearing person, anyway. She did pick up the precious book, however, the first edition of the original _The Tale of Bad Wolf_ , and tucked it under her arm.

Then she blew a kiss to her gallant, slumbering savior, opened the time jumper, found the proper destination in the memory banks, and sent herself back to the future.


	8. Dance 7 Egyptian Tahtib

**Sixth Intermission**

The glowing purple tracery of Reich World's tangled timelines flowed swiftly into existence alongside the others on the Dimension Cannon's large screens, and once again the four remaining watchers breathed a sigh of relief. One more world saved.

"She did it," Rose murmured.

Jared slid an arm around her shoulders, grinning, but then stopped at her misty, distant expression. "What is it?" he asked softly.

Rose shook her head. "I was just wondering what exactly she'd done. What they all did. It would be nice someday to find out."

"Getting used to the idea of other Rose Tylers finally?"

She laughed softly. "Yeah. Took me long enough, I know." She glanced fleetingly sideways at him, but didn't say anything, nor did she need to. The flickering shadow of the Doctor had never left the deep recesses of his eyes in the two years since they'd been kicked out of the TARDIS. Instead, she slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a fierce hug, then dropped them and stepped back with a dancing grin.

"OK, captain," she said. "It's our turn at last. What's our challenge?"

"I've been wondering about that myself," put in Jack, reminding them of his existence. "You don't have a lot of history left between the last mission and your own time period."

Jared gave him a lightning-fast double-take, momentarily caught by the idea that he had his own specific "home" period after centuries of time surfing, but two years of practice let him breeze past it immediately, filing it away with all the other thousands of similar data points to deal with later. (The fact that "later" never seemed to come he just never allowed to cross his consciousness at all.) "Actually, that's not quite correct. We're going back a little further than the last one. I wanted to get everybody else launched before we left on our own mission."

Jack suddenly laughed aloud at that, and the others looked at him curiously. He shook his head deprecatingly. "Just the image of you sending all those Roses out one by one on separate missions through time. Kind of like... 'Jared's Angels'."

Rose was the only one who caught that reference, and she laughed back at him. "Does that make you Bosley?"

He grinned widely at her. "I always thought he had the BEST job..."

Jared was looking back and forth between them, puzzled. Rose just shook her head at him. "So who is our target, then?"

Jared turned around and leaned his hips against the console, crossing his arms and letting a smirking, teasing grin claim his face, drawing out the suspense. He waited another beat, enjoying it, but then movement from his other side caught all their attention. Joel, the techie, had reached for the last remaining paperback of the stack, looked at the title, and gasped. Seeing them all looking at him, he wordlessly turned the book so Rose and Jack could read it.

 _Napoleon Bonaparte._

 _"Napoleon?"_ Jack laughed. "What, do you have to help him win at Waterloo or something?"

"Actually, no," came Jared's reply. "Just the opposite. In Beta, he never even became Emperor. The Napoleonic wars, and everything bound up in that, the whole decade of war throughout Europe, never happened. France went through a couple more coups, then settled into a reasonably sane democratic republic even more quickly than in Alpha."

"What happened to Napoleon?" asked Rose. "And when?"

"Well, a lesser-known event in history, but absolutely fascinating, began in Seventeen Ninety-eight, six years before he became emperor. Napoleon led a campaign of forty thousand soldiers – and a hundred and seventy scientists and engineers – into Egypt. They routed the ruling Mameluks and took control of Egypt from the Ottoman Turks for a year or two before they themselves were booted back out of the country by the Turks and the English. But the scientists – known as the Institute of Egypt – put together the first rigorous descriptions of the country, its people, landscape, animals and insects, the ancient ruins, and much, much more. It was woefully incomplete and inaccurate, but it was a start. They founded the entire science of Egyptian archaeology."

"Napoleon?" Rose brought him back to the subject.

"Well, in Alpha, he returned to France in Seventeen Ninety-nine, sneaking out, some say. He left behind the entire expedition, which held on for another two years before they were defeated and surrendered to the British. But in Beta..."

"Yes?"

"Napoleon Bonaparte mysteriously disappeared in the desert, along with a couple of thousand soldiers, in December, Seventeen Ninety-eight."

They waited, but he said nothing more.

"Just... disappeared?"

"As far as I could find out. Nobody ever figured out what happened."

"What happened to the expedition?" Joel asked, curious.

"It collapsed pretty quickly after his disappearance. Some of his generals tried to keep things going, but without Napoleon's personality cult, soldiers began deserting en masse, some disappearing, some straggling back to France over the next few years. The generals finally called it quits – they'd had no instructions from the Directory for months because the English fleet had cut off all communication – and surrendered to the British two years earlier than they would have otherwise."

Rose had turned and leaned against the console beside him, mirroring his pose. "So... we're going to Egypt?" she asked, excitement coloring her face in ways he hadn't seen in two years.

"Yup..." he grinned, ignoring the concommitant twinge without even putting a name on it. He swiveled suddenly around to flash his infectious grin at Joel. "Want to come along?"

The tech was startled, to say the least. "Me?" he squeaked. Gaping, he looked back and forth at the rest of them, then shut his mouth and began shaking his head. "No... no. I'm a geek. I work with computers. I like air conditioning and microwave pizzas, and I sunburn horribly. Thanks, but... no. I'll stay."

"OK," Jared smiled kindly at him, letting him off the hook. He turned to look at Jack, waited a beat, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, buddy, but you need to stay here and monitor things, and then shut it all down again."

"I figured as much," Jack replied. "Don't worry. Destruction is one of my specialties. As soon as Beta reappears on the monitors, I'll dismantle the cannon and scatter the pieces on a couple of garbage dump worlds I know of, and then flash back home. If Corvantes ever does make it back, he won't have _anything_ left to work with and rebuild."

"Take care of the rest of those goons, too, would you?"

"Sure thing. I see an unexpected trip to someplace exotic in their near future. One way," he added unnecessarily. "Call me on the superphone when you guys get back and we'll compare notes." He paused, as Jared nodded agreement. "So what are you going to do, exactly?"

"Well, I don't think I'd be a good soldier, and there were no female soldiers at the time. The obvious thing would be to become one of the scientists in the Institute." Jared's face twisted in apprehension. "That's not going to be so easy this time, though. Wish I still had that slightly-psychic paper."

"Do you still have yours?" Rose asked Jack.

"Sure thing," he replied, pulling it out of a pocket and handing it to her.

"I didn't know you had some," Jared pounced.

"That's how we first met," Jack laughed, motioning to Rose. He turned to her, "Are you still available?" he leered, reminding her of how the paper had betrayed both their thoughts to the other that first time as they'd handed it back and forth over WWII London.

"No," she enunciated firmly, putting her hand through Jared's arm, but letting her eyes twinkle at the handsome captain, their best friend.

"I was just kidding!" said friend protested laughingly to Jared, who was looking slightly murderous. "By the way, you two manage to tie the knot yet?"

The couple glanced at each other and sputtered a rueful puff. "Not quite," Jared replied. "We were _supposed_ to be doing so today – er, the day this started. About two hours later." He turned back to Rose, suddenly sincerely intense. "But we WILL make it back. I promise. That very day. Not twelve months later."

"Speaking of which..." Jack's grin dribbled away, under a thoughtful expression. "Seventeen ninety-eight, eh?" Another beat, then he nodded decisively. "In that case..."

He walked over to where he'd dropped his greatcoat on the floor on his return a few minutes earlier. As he picked it up again now, the others noticed what they'd missed the first time: something was wrapped up inside of it. Something long and skinny. "One of the reasons I was late is because I wanted to retrieve this. Had to go forward about sixty-two centuries and break into an uncrackable vault to do it. But I wanted to give it to you two, as a wedding present. Seeing where and when you're heading, though... It might just come in handy." Unwrapping the coat, he dropped it on the floor again and held the object inside out to Jared and Rose on both hands: a brilliantly flashing filigreed silver sword.

Both of them gasped, eyes flaring wide. "Where did _that_ come from?" Jared breathed.

"I honestly have no idea where it was from originally – or when. But I have the distinct feeling that it's traveled through time more than once."

"Through space, as well," Jared replied, at last reaching out to reverently take the sword from Jack's hands. He peered closely at the hilt and the giant ruby set within it, sniffing. "It wasn't made on Earth. I can't place where it's from, though. But it's not silver..." At last, he did what Rose was expecting, and took a swift lick of the silver hilt as she winced, startling both Jack and Joel. "That's... durantium! With a few other things, as well. Definitely un-Earth."

Jack's mouth twisted into a satisfied half-grin. "Then it's with the right owner now."

Jared caught his eyes, and they shared a look of understanding. "Thank you," he said quietly, reaching to shake Jack's hand.

Rose was thinking of wedding presents, too. As long as their nuptials had been in the making, she'd still never come up with an appropriate gift for her intended. And then she realized: it was right there on her wrist. She unbuckled the time jumper, placed there while Jared had been teaching her and the others how to use it, and silently fastened it around his wrist, instead. At his startled look, she said quietly, "I can't give you a TARDIS. But at least I can give you this." Deliberately breaking the moment, she reached across him and motioned to Joel to give her the paperback, which she stuffed into the waistband of her shorts at her back.

"Come here, Tock," she called to the dog, and he obediently went and sat beside his mistress, tongue lolling happily.

"We're taking him?" Jared asked amusedly. She'd fussed at him for bringing the dog, after all – even though he hadn't even realized the pooch had tagged along at first.

Rose nodded. "I don't want to leave him behind. Besides, I just have a feeling that he's along for a reason."

"Hey, one more thing," Jack interrupted. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a half a dozen coins glinting gold, and poured them into Rose's hand. "Money frequently comes in handy, and they don't exactly have cash machines back where you're going. Courtesy of the Byzantine Emperor," he added.

"Was the sword his, too?" Jared asked, curious.

"No, it became a church relic after we used it symbolically. The Orthodox church, that is. It was known as the Sword of Justice."

"Well," Rose said thoughtfully. "Let's hope it lives up to its name again."

* * *

 **Dance Seven: Egyptian Tahtib**

 **Bonjour...**

"So, where are we exactly?" Rose asked, brushing dust off her derriere as she stood up again – their landing out of the transport flash hadn't exactly been graceful – and then reaching over to do the same for Tock, before he bounded excitedly away from her and began investigating the dusty alley.

Jared checked the time jumper on his wrist, waiting a beat while it snagged their current whereabouts in the spacetime continuum and double-checked them against their target and his memory, then he turned and smiled at his fiancé. "Perfect. We're in the town of Suez, right at the very north end of the Red Sea, and it's late December of Seventeen ninety-eight. Napoleon will be here in a couple of days."

"Suez?" she repeated, puzzled. Geography had never been her strongest subject at school (although it had been better than some). "Isn't that where there's a big canal or something?"

"Not yet. Will be, in about six decades."

"Ok. So, what's first?"

"Well, first, I think we'd better find the market and get ourselves some decent local clothes. We're not exactly dressed for the desert – or decently dressed at all," and Jared looked sideways at her, his eyes twinkling, "ya wee timorous beastie!"

Sending him an amused mock-glare at this reminder of their adventure with Queen Victoria, she replied in the same mangled Scots accent she'd used then: "Och, ya mon!"

He cringed, screwing his face up. "Ach! That still sounds horrible! OUCH!" he cried, rubbing his arm where she'd punched it. Then, giggling together, they joined hands and went in search of the market, with Tock lollygagging along behind.

Sounds of human activity were coming from thataway, but they kept to smaller alleys as they worked their way over, not wanting to attract too much attention. Jared peered up and down each street they came to, though, puzzlement settling further on his features each time. "What is it?" Rose finally asked him.

"The town seems half empty. There should be a lot more people here than this. There's supposed to be seventeen, eighteen thousand people living here about now." He jerked his head back and pressed with her into the shadows as a troop of French soldiers went marching past, rifles on their shoulders, sweating in their blue uniforms under the scorching Egyptian sun. "On the other hand, maybe they left because of them," he whispered.

"I thought Napoleon wasn't here yet?"

"If I recall, I think he sent a couple thousand troops under General... uh... General Bon here before him to secure the town." He nodded towards her back, where the paperback was still tucked in her waistband. "We'll check in the book later." Not acknowledging his uncharacteristic uncertainty of the name, he peeked out to make sure the soldiers were gone before they darted out and across the street.

Two blocks further found them peeking out of another alley into the open marketplace. This time Rose had to agree with him: the market seemed half deserted, with many open stalls around the perimeter and only a few shoppers. Jared pulled back again as a couple of soldiers wandered past, off duty, talking and laughing with each other. Rose watched them go, listening to their incomprehensible chatter, as well as that of the locals nearby. Then, turning around, she was shocked to find Jared sagging back against the wall, eyes screwed tightly shut, a look she couldn't decipher on his face – pain? Fear?

"Jared? Love?" she whispered, laying a hand lightly on his chest.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "It's ok. I'm ok," he panted. His eyes finally opened and lit on her face. "Rose... I understood what they're saying. All of them." A beat, while this sunk in. "I still speak French – and Arabic."

Her sunrise smile claimed her lips, and she reached out to pull him into a tight hug. "Oh, Jared!"

One of the biggest shocks he's suffered on losing the TARDIS had been losing languages, too. The Doctor had learned tens of thousands of languages in his youth, but almost every one of them had been galactic ones, spoken far across the galaxy and/or thousands – hundreds of thousands – of years into the future. Without realizing it, he'd been depending on the TARDIS translations circuits for almost all the Earth languages of or near Rose's time, the time he'd most spent on this, his favorite planet. And once the translator circuit was no longer active in his head, Jared had been limited to English – or so he'd thought. After discovering in Reich World that he no longer understood German or Norwegian, he'd never quite had the courage to discover if he'd retained any others.

Now MUCH more confident than he'd been a moment before, he took her hand, fingers intertwined as was their habit, and they sauntered together into the marketplace. Rose's eyes caught the sight of beautiful silks stirring in the slight breeze. "Oooh, can I get an exotic Egyptian outfit, like Evie did in The Mummy?"

 _"Mummies?_ You mean like, walking undead people? Ooh, I hope not! Ick!" Jared shivered theatrically, and Rose gaped at him a moment, then laughed helplessly, figuring he hadn't caught the reference, especially when he asked her immediately to slip him just one of the golden coins, which he then commenced haggling with a jewelry merchant over exchanging it for an appropriate amount of local currency.

But he had gotten it. "Something exotic, eh? With seven veils, perhaps? For dancing?" Local money pocketed, he leaned over her, leering, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

"Maaaaaybe," she drawled, and turned to saunter away towards the silks, hips swaying. His eyebrows shot to his hairline, and he grinned, stretching out a long leg cartoonishly to hurry after her.

She didn't end up as belly-dancer-chic as Evie had, but was happy, nevertheless, with strange trousers of dark-blue silk, wide at the top but tight below the knees; a long-sleeved white silk blouse to keep sun off her arms but so lightweight that it added nothing to the heat; a jade green, fitted cotton caftan with long side slits, embroidered around the edges with lighter green and gold thread; and a heavy fitted coat of midnight blue for the cold, December desert evenings. She kept her sandals, but also found a pair of leather boots that didn't fit too badly, and topped it all off with a light blue scarf with gold threads for her hair, and a slightly darker warm blue shawl to wrap around her shoulders when it wasn't cold enough for the coat.

Jared was much harder to outfit, the long, skinny toothpick being a completely different shape than any of the locals. Finally, though, one of the men had an idea, and led them out of the market to a private home. He convinced the widow who lived there to part with some of her late husband's clothes; an oddity among the Egyptians, he'd been nearly as tall as Jared and only a little heavier. Dressed in the traditional very long white cotton shirt hanging almost to his feet, grey cotton trousers underneath, maroon caftan tied with a cloth belt, a dark green coat, and black boots, he almost passed for a local, especially after Rose talked him into adding a white turban for his head, to keep off the sun.

Lastly, the widow handed him a leather belt, motioning towards the sword he still carried in one hand. He'd wrapped it loosely in cloth, but the shape was still unmistakable. Thanking her gravely, he ran the belt through the scabbard's loops and settled it around his hips under the caftan, where the ruby wouldn't attract attention.

They took turns admiring each other on the way back to the market to pick up some food and other supplies. Once there, though, another matter claimed their attention: some of the locals were having a very strange reaction to Tock. While a few stray mongrels were running about unremarked, their pooch was garnering white-eyed, sideways stares, and not a few gestures which Rose thought might be to ward off evil – and Jared confirmed they were. He turned to ask their guide about it in Arabic, but the answer made him stop and stare, wide-eyed.

"What is it?" Rose asked, alarmed.

He turned his stare on her, nonplussed more than alarmed, and she relaxed slightly. "They called him _'aled'eb sey'eh'_ ," he said quietly, as if that meant something.

"Which means?" she prompted.

A beat. Then, enunciating carefully, "Bad wolf."

* * *

 **...Bienvenue...**

Their self-appointed guide, whose name turned out to be Selim, pulled Jared and Rose along yet another dusty street to a small adobe building on the outskirts of town. "He says he's going to show us the bad wolf?" Jared told her, as bewildered as she was, but thereafter couldn't get another word out of the previously-loquacious Egyptian.

Ducking under the lintel into the gloom, they blinked for a few moments to adjust their eyes, then followed Selim through yet another doorway into an inner room. And there they stopped dead, jaws dropping.

Crouched on the dirt floor before them, teeth bared, a split-second before the spring, was a life-sized, completely realistic, obsidian statue of... Tock. A very angry, ferocious Tock.

The dog himself stuck his nose in through the door at their heels, caught sight of "his" image, and then strangely, ducked and whined softly, before he crept backwards all the way out into the sunshine.

His owners exchanged an utterly mystified glance, then Jared turned back to Selim, shooting him questions and translating the replies for Rose. "He says it was found in the desert a very long time ago, in..." He paused, shooting a sharp word at their guide before continuing, raising his eyebrows at Rose in surprise and dawning excitement, "... in a mysterious pyramid, which only appears once every hundred years or so, then vanishes again."

"A mysterious, disappearing pyramid," she repeated, then bit her lips to squelch a snort. "Well, I guess that settles where we're headed next, then, doesn't it? Where is it, exactly, when it does appear?"

"Southwest, beyond the Red Sea, near Ayun Musa – the Springs of Moses," was the reply. Jared thought a moment, then nodded. "I think we're going to need camels." Rose smothered another snort. He was having way too much fun – and so was she.

Jared turned again to stare at the statue, taking a step closer and beginning to bend over to examine it more closely (Rose saw his hand creep towards his pocket, where he'd stashed the sonic screwdriver) – when suddenly the doorway to outside behind them was filled with figures. A dozen French soldiers marched quickly into the room, rifles at the ready in their hands, although not pointed directly at anyone – yet. Their officer entered last, his epaulets glimmering with gold threads, and he marched stifflegged straight up to Jared and crashed to a halt. A quick conversation in French ensued between them, then Jared turned to Rose and held out his hand.

"General Bon wishes to make our acquaintance, my dear."

^..^

The French General had apparently taken over the largest, grandest house in Suez for his headquarters. The couple were swiftly conveyed through an outer courtyard (telling Tock to stay there), and then an inner one, and into a large, airy room at one side of the shaded inner court. A fountain played in the center, while transplanted palms and other potted plants lent cool, soothing green touches, a lush natural opulence utterly at odds with the brash desert outside the walls.

The General was seated behind a large table, assorted papers in neat piles on its inlaid tile surface. Short and slightly pudgy, his mid-length light brown hair curled almost girlishly around his ears, yet his eyes were bright and piercing, belying a quick intelligence. Not for nothing had he made high rank, and Rose knew instantly he could be quite dangerous to their own mission.

He shot a quick question at Jared, obviously asking for his name, and Jared spluttered for an moment. They'd flung themselves so fast into this adventure that he hadn't taken even a moment to come up with an alias. He spat out the first French name that came into his head. "Jean-Luc Picard, Monsieur Général."

It was all Rose could do to keep a straight face. She clenched her jaws tightly shut and stared at the wall over the General's head for a moment, letting the next few sentences flow past her unnoticed. Then, suddenly, she realized the General had directed a question at her.

She stuttered. "O-oui, Monsieur," and instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say. Bon's eyes hardened, and he spat out, "Vous êtes Anglais?" _You're English?_

"Oui, Général," Jared took over for her, squeezing her hand gently. "My wife is English," he continued in French. "And now you know why we are out here, in the middle of nowhere." He paused. "I chose love, over country," he quietly 'confessed', then waited to see how much of a romantic the Frenchman was underneath the uniform.

Apparently, he was enough of one for the idea of the love of a woman overcoming staunch patriotism to not be instantly condemned. His face slowly softened, just a bit, and he returned to questioning "M. Picard" about the couple's doings in Egypt. Rose heaved a silent sigh of relief while Jared presented a swiftly-conceived cover: he was a surveyor by trade, who was searching on his own for traces of the rumored ancient canal said to have connected the Red Sea to the Nile near Alexandria a thousand years before. No, he answered the General, he hadn't found them yet, and unfortunately his equipment had all been stolen by Tuareg tribesmen sweeping out of the Arabian desert. "We were lucky to escape with our lives, and a few scraps of clothing" he embroidered, "and had to purchase new clothes, even, just today."

At length, Bon seemed to accept the story, and told Jared that he was releasing them from custody, but that they were to stay in town, as the his superior, General Bonaparte, was arriving soon, and would no doubt wish to interview him. Jared allowed unfeigned excitement at meeting the legendary Napoleon to show on his face, and promised enthusiastically to stick around. Satisfied, the General called for an adjutant, and told the man to find the couple a house near the square, then dismissed them all. Jared barely restrained himself from tossing a snappy salute.

"I was right," he told Rose softly on their way back across town to their newly assigned quarters, Tock once more trotting at their heels. "Bon said that most of the inhabitants did flee the town as they arrived. The French have simply 'requisitioned' housing all over the town."

"Are we really waiting for Napoleon?" Rose asked, just as quietly.

"No," came the reply. "We need to get out there and check out that pyramid."

"Have you ever met him before?"

"Yes, but obviously not with this face, and not this early in his life. He was already Emperor. He won't know me now, or the Doctor."

The adjutant saw them to a tiny but clean adobe brick house and left them there, reinforcing the General's command to stay in town. Jared blithely agreed, then winked at Rose. Once the man had finally left, he turned to her with a question.

"Do you think you could handle getting us some supplies on your own, while I go find us some transportation?" She nodded, smiling confidently, and he split the remaining local cash with her, trading it for another gold coin from the pouch she'd hidden under her new clothes. "I might need it to have enough."

They walked together a few blocks towards the marketplace before they spotted Selim once more. Jared hailed him and asked about the availability of riding camels, and the Egyptian's face lit up. He knew just where to go, of course. Waving goodbye, Rose let him go and turned towards the market, grinning. Tock gave her an uncertain bark, then decided to follow his master instead, apparently to find out what these 'camels' were, thought Rose.

She'd only gotten a few blocks when, turning a corner, she brushed absently by a couple going the opposite direction. And then stopped dead, her bones turning instantly to ice, her breath dying in her chest, as their conversation hit her ears.

In English.

But that wasn't the earthshaking part.

"I don't even know what we're looking for," complained the man, tired exasperation evident in his voice.

"Let's just get back to the TARDIS," the woman replied, equally irritated "and ask the Doctor."

* * *

 **… Et Adieu**

"STOP!" Rose's voice was ripped out of her chest involuntarily, harsh and cracked. She turned stiffly, jerkily, to stare at the couple, who had both turned to stare back at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Both of them were young, with flaming red hair, and obviously British – Scots, even, Rose realized as their slight lilts penetrated the edges of her mind, the part that wasn't the blazing, roaring center.

Somehow, she forced herself to take a breath, to turn, to walk towards them on leaden feet. "Take me to the TARDIS," she ordered them hoarsely. "I need to see the Doctor."

"You... know the Doctor?" asked the woman, but Rose just turned and gave her a flat, silent stare, hard as durantium, cold as the depths of space. As cold as her suddenly-frozen heart.

The two of them glanced at each other uneasily. "OK," replied the man, and he gestured forward. He led Rose a few blocks away, his companion following worriedly behind, and then they turned a corner, and the humans faded completely out of Rose's consciousness.

There, tucked into the bend of an alley, was the one sight she had truly believed she would never see again in her lifetime: the TARDIS. She halted involuntarily, stumbling a bit, momentarily blinded by tears, then she shook her head hard and resolutely marched forward, one hand reaching up unconsciously to pull the scarf off her head. Behind her, the couple, who had stopped at the corner to see what she'd do, glanced at each other again and shrugged, then followed. She'd seen the TARDIS through its perception filter; obviously she wasn't a stranger to it.

Reaching those achingly-familiar blue doors, Rose simply reached out a hand and pushed. The doors were always locked, and she no longer had a key. But it opened to her touch, anyway. She was remembered.

She stepped through – and suddenly halted yet again, her mouth falling open in shock. The TARDIS control room had changed, drastically. The insides were completely different, all psychedelic orange and peach and brown, with open stairs spiraling up and down between three different levels. Disoriented at first, then her eyes drifted up, and fastened on the one thing that hadn't changed: the glowing blue-green column of the time rotor, above a redesigned, organic-looking circular console.

"Did you find it?" came a strange voice from the far side of the console, then someone loped around and peered over the railing at her. Not a face she'd ever seen before, but there was not a flicker of doubt in her mind about his identity.

The Doctor.

But _when_ was he? Would he know her? Or was this a Doctor before her time?

He stopped dead, just as she had, not breathing, staring wildly at her face, and his square jaw almost hit the railing. Then, after half a lifetime, he whispered, the sound barely reaching her ears. "Rose..."

So, her brain managed to supply, and then it abruptly broke from its paralysis completely. _This is a later version. Good_. Although she couldn't have articulated just then what was so "good" about it.

She said not a word, but simply stared back up at the face which had apparently supplanted "her" Doctor's. She watched him draw in a deep, gulping breath, then turn and awkwardly climb down the stairs, until he stood at last before her. She vaguely registered the other two – his current companions, no doubt – stepping in behind her and closing the door, then edging around to one side of the room to watch, and then dismissed them again from her mind.

This Doctor was shorter than "hers" by a couple of inches, with what to her jaundiced perception seemed like beady, shifty little eyes, lank brown hair falling over one side of a broad forehead, a huge lantern jaw, and a jutting, beaky nose. And, jarringly, a loud, polka-dotted bow tie. She didn't bother with the rest of his clothes after that.

He opened his mouth. "Rose... um..."

She held up a hand to stop him, closing her eyes and turning her head away. Then she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she began. Her hand dropped a little, and she gazed vaguely over his shoulder so as not to look straight at him, shuffling a step closer. "I know this is... ridiculously, stupidly clichéd..."

And then she hauled off and slapped him as hard as she could, rocking him sideways. His jaw dropped open, and he held a hand to it, very slowly coming upright again to stare at her, wounded and surprised. Well, maybe not surprised.

"Hey!" burst out of the female companion, outraged.

The Doctor shot a hand up to stop her without glancing her way. "Amy..." was all he said. Rory, for of course it was he, reached out to grab Amy's arm, and she stepped back again beside her husband, watching their Doctor – Eleven – take care of his own business.

Rose's arms had crossed across her chest of their own volition. "You _dumped_ me," she hissed. "Like a _stray dog_." Reaching back to that wretched day on the beach, two aching, impossibly long years before, she ripped the scars off her heart and showed him the roiling poison hidden underneath. "And you didn't even stop to make sure you had the right parallel," she added bitterly.

"What?" he asked, distracted, perplexed.

 _"You left us in the wrong world, Doctor!"_ Rose damn near screamed. "It wasn't Beta – Pete's World. And we played HELL getting back there!"

"But you did make it back?" the Doctor latched on to her wording, flailing desperately for a lifesaver.

"No thanks to _you_!" she snarled.

He nodded jerkily, accepting the rebuke. "And," he began tentatively, "what are you doing here, then?"

Rose's jaw jutted out, capturing his attention like it always had, her icy eyes drilling through his soul. "Taking care of business. And we don't need your help," she rasped out through clenched teeth.

The Doctor raised his head, trying for a jaunty air. "Good!" he chirped. "We'll just... go..." His voice trailed off at her furious expression, and he shut his mouth with a pop. Nope.

She stared hard at him for a long, silent moment, not acknowledging the byplay, then her mouth parted, and one single, anguished word slipped out. _"Why?"_

He didn't bother pretending to misunderstand. Instead, he looked straight back, and answered from his hearts. "Because I wanted you to be happy. And you could be, with him. But not with me."

She started to shake her head, but he cut her off this time. "Rose, look at me. Yeah, you'd have been happy at first, but this face? This man? I changed, so much. And it didn't happen very long after that, either. But _he_..." The Doctor paused a moment, swallowed, then continued quietly, using his own words from so long ago. "He can spend the rest of his life with you, and you can spend the rest of yours with him. And he _is_ me – the me you fell in love with, the me that fell in love with you. _Your_ Doctor. The one you can keep, forever."

She had to look away at that, his only admission – ever – that he had fallen in love with her. Once upon a time. Tears sprang to her eyes again, and she blinked them back, hard, then her gaze returned to his face, her voice ragged.

"Didn't you ever stop to think that maybe I would have liked to have been given the choice? No," she rode over him, "I didn't choose. Don't give me that. YOU chose. You _always_ choose."

"NO!" his turn to cut in, stung. "That is _not true_. I never dragged you in here, or anybody else. It was ALWAYS your choice to come along, and keep coming along. Yes, I made the last choice, this time, but you can't say I made all of them."

Her eyes flickered at the "this time", unwanted reminder that she was only one in a long line of companions. How many of their stories had he ended, as he'd ended Sarah Jane's? She didn't want to know.

She shook her head again. "Don't you understand, Doctor?" Her voice was small, now, drenched in pain and memory. "It wasn't just you. It was this life. It was this ship. This wonderful, crazy, fantastic time ship..." Her eyes had wandered longingly upwards towards the time rotor, and as they caught the glow emanating from above, her voice drifted off, her head stopped moving, and her pupils dilated wide.

And started glowing in response, a tiny golden spark from deep within.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, what are you doing?" the Doctor asked, swiftly becoming frantic. He glanced wildly back and forth between Rose and the rotor, sending the same question to the sentient time ship along their psychic link. _*What are you DOING?*_ There was only silence in reply.

Deep, deep inside Rose's brain, a single, long-silent neuron fired, and a ghost of a shadow of a whisper of a memory slipped across her mind, trailing the faintest echo of Knowing... and Being... and Power... Somewhere far across vast, empty time and space, a lone wolf howled. Then slowly, so slowly, it faded, as the TARDIS gently disengaged. The answering glow in Rose's eyes dimmed and went out, and the Doctor sagged, still gazing at her fearfully, only partially relieved.

"Rose?" he whispered tentatively, not daring to touch her – for his own sake if not for hers.

Her unseeing eyes drifted down again, as she processed the meaning of what the TARDIS had put into her mind. Tangled feelings, scattered words, tattered fragments of ideas, hers and his and the ship's, a whirling mass that gradually slowed and cleared, most of it draining away between her now-human-again neurons and seeping out to be lost in the outer darkness. But some of it remained, crystallizing slowly into something she could hold and understand.

"I was right," she whispered. At last she refocused her eyes on his face, seeing it again for the first time, piercing through to his soul. "We're all just pets to you. – Oh," she shook off his automatic protest, which died unspoken on his lips, "Beloved pets, of course. Companions. But never equals. Not even Donna." She stopped, and the shadow of painful realization dawned anew. "I could never have been your wife. Because _she_ is. Always has been. Always will be." The upwards flicker of her eyes made it plain who "she" was: the sentient TARDIS.

The Doctor stood still, silent. Neither confirming nor denying.

"But you can be _his_ wife," he said simply.

Rose's eyes flew closed in pain, flinching back from the reality. But then, she slowly nodded, acknowledging the truth of it.

"Are you happy?" he asked. She didn't answer. "Married?" he probed again. This time, she gave a tiny, rueful little smile.

"Almost."

"Then..." The Doctor's mouth shut again, not saying the rest of the sentence.

And then, thinking of Jared, and all he had come to mean to her and always had, it hit her. She gasped, her eyes flying open wide, and they darted again up to the time rotor, and she took a step forward, speaking desperately, directly to the glowing column, to the TARDIS.

"It was _you_. _You're_ the reason he can speak French again – and Arabic. The translator circuit. You're in his head again, aren't you?" She shook her head wildly, visions of how Jared's world, his fragile, painfully half-rebuilt psyche would come crashing down if he realized it tormenting her. She began begging, pleading with the ship. "Please. _Please_. Give it back to him. Give him languages again – just the Earth ones, the ones he needs now. But don't let him feel you, or know it's you. _Please_..." She paused, then whispered again, voice breaking, "He was part of you once."

The four people held their breath for a long, aching, moment, and then the time rotor flashed brighter, just once, and a single soft chime pealed through the control room. She had agreed, and done as requested.

Rose's eyes sank closed once again, grateful tears squeezing out from under her lids, and her fist flew up to her lips, keeping sobs trapped behind them. A moment later she had herself under control, and she took her fist away just far enough to whisper brokenly, "Thank you."

She took a few deep breaths, then opened her eyes again and looked at the Doctor one last time. He didn't speak a word; he didn't have to. She nodded anyway. She'd just proven whose wife she was.

Then, her eyes narrowed again. "I'll still never forgive you."

"Good," he replied, as level and honest as she.

One long, long last look, then... "Goodbye, Doctor," she said simply.

Rose Tyler turned and walked out the TARDIS door for the last time ever, steadily, under her own power. She kept going straight, to the end of the alley and on out to the street. A moment later, she heard the time ship whooshing out of existence behind her. But she never hesitated, she never glanced back.

Her head was high. And her eyes were dry.

* * *

 **Into the Desert**

Her arms full with a large, awkward, blanket-wrapped bundle, Rose carefully let herself in the door of their temporary home a couple of hours later, to be greeted by Tock's tail thumping on the floor. The pooch looked worn out from his long day of time jumping and investigating an incredible array of new smells.

Just beyond him, Jared sat at the little table, his head propped on one fist, eyes closed. He jerked awake at the noise, blinking hard and looking a little befuddled. "Sorry. I must have dozed off." He didn't exactly jump up with his usual energy, though.

Rose carefully set her package on the table. "You OK?"

"Yeah. It was... weird, though. I was out looking at the camel-seller's animals, and all of a sudden I got this blinding headache, just like that." He snapped his fingers, then rubbed his face.

"A headache? You never get headaches." _Uh-oh._ She stepped around behind him and started massaging his shoulders, in order to hide her face.

"I know. That's why it was so weird. It faded out after a few minutes. But I guess I'm still feeling a bit twinge-y."

Rose took a step closer, directly behind him, and gently pulled his head back against her chest. "Come here. Just relax." She started gently rubbing his temples, a slow, soothing circular motion. "Was that it? Just a headache?"

"Mm-hmm. That feels good." His eyes were closed again, and he slowly relaxed against her.

She smiled softly. _Good. He hadn't noticed the TARDIS messing with his memory._ She'd instinctively decided to say nothing about it. He didn't need to know; it would ruin the much-needed boost to his battered self-esteem to find out that his restored knowledge of languages – if it had even worked – had come from the TARDIS, at her urging no less, and not from somewhere inside himself.

After a few minutes, Jared reached up and gently took her hands, pulling them down to his chest. She leaned over to rub her cheek against his. "Much better," he murmured. "Thanks."

Rose nibbled his ear, then whispered mischievously, "So... did you get us some camels?"

He snorted. "Yes, I got us a good pair of riding camels. And saddles, and bridles, and other assorted paraphernalia. And even a quick riding lesson, as we took them around to Selim's compound – it's just a few blocks from here." He twisted his neck around to give her a kiss, then returned the mischievous attitude. "So what kinds of goodies did you get?"

They unwrapped her haul and went through it: portable, not-too-perishable food, enough for a few days, including rice, chickpeas, dried meat, figs and dates; two warm blankets and a small bundle of primitive matches; a pair of small, sharp knives in leather sheaths, one for each of them. There were also a pair of small leather bags, one filled with coffee and one with sugar, and a battered old cooking pot, which had obviously been used over many an open flame. And lastly, over her shoulder, Rose had slung the cords of four large water skins.

"How did you manage to get all this?" It was an impressive pile.

"Just gathered it all together, and then offered them a single gold coin. They argued a bit between them, probably about how to divide it, but then accepted it." She nodded at his raised eyebrow's unspoken point. "Yeah, if you look at it one way, I probably paid way too much – way more than a local who could haggle with them would. But I figured it was worth that much to us. Besides, I have the distinct feeling that the French aren't paying for anything, so this might make up for a bit of that."

"I'm sure they appreciate it," was his complement. "But what about Tock?"

She grinned. "He likes our food better than his, anyway. He can eat the meat and rice for a few days; it won't hurt him, and I made sure to get plenty of both."

"Molto bene, buon piano!" Rose blinked, then smothered a smile. _Italian?_

Suddenly, he winced again, rubbing his forehead with one hand.

"Still twinge-y?" she asked.

"Just a bit."

They were standing side-by-side, and she turned to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck. "I think I know what the problem is," she told him seriously.

"What?"

"You've been away from the Enterprise for too long." A beat, while his expression turned mystified, then her mouth twisted in a teasing, sardonic smirk. _"Jean-Luc Picard."_

Jared immediately cracked up, letting loose his infectious giggle, with Rose a beat behind him. "I can't _believe_ you used that name!" she laughed, poking him in the chest.

"It was the only French name I could come up with on the spot that wasn't from this time period!" he explained. Suddenly his face cleared, jaw dropping as lightning struck. " _That_ explains it!"

"What?" Her turn to be mystified – and wary. "The headaches?"

"No," he deadpanned, looking sideways down at her. "The sudden urge to shave my head."

She was not amused. "Touch that hair, and I'll divorce you."

"We're not married yet," he reminded her, mouth quirking.

"Touch that hair, and we won't be," she amended without skipping a beat.

"All righty, then. Cancel the barber." His twinkling eyes then narrowed. "I _knew_ it. You're only marrying me for my hair."

"Yup!" she agreed sunnily, and began running her fingers through said unruly curls.

Leaning over, he began snogging her thoroughly, slowly walking her backwards at the same time. "You know," he murmured against her lips, "I _have_ heard about a sure-fire cure for headaches."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Think you could help me out with that?"

She drew her head back to give him her best innocent look. "What, you want an aspirin?" The back of her calves touched the divan.

"Only if that's a new position," he smirked.

Laughing throatily, she grabbed his lapels and pulled, tumbling together with him back onto the divan.

^..^

The following dawn found them leading their new mounts quietly towards the shoreline, having risen an hour before to retrieve them from Selim's place. The Egyptian was up already, and helped them load up, then lead them out of the town, avoiding the roving French guard. The town of Suez was actually perched on the western shore of the Red Sea, a couple of miles south of the northernmost tip. At low tide, however, the water retreated far enough to ride straight across the shoals to the Sinai side. Selim had divined their destination at once the day before, and given Jared directions, and also told him about the tides, including the fact that they would be at their lowest just after dawn. And so they were, the bare damp sands stretching east from the point on the bank where Selim waved them off.

"In fact," Jared informed Rose, slipping once more into his old role of guide through history, "that's most likely how Moses himself got the Israelites out of Egypt: at low tide. He didn't actually part the Red Sea, just waited for the right moment."

"So Pharaoh's soldiers didn't drown?"

"They might have. The tide comes rushing back here faster than it does at Mont St Michel. It's easy to get caught out in the middle and swept away if you're not careful."

"Is it safe?" She looked around nervously; they were already a mile out on the wet sands.

"Of course," came the immediate reply. "Caravans have been traversing this way for centuries. The locals know the tide schedules instinctively."

Reassured, Rose put it out of her mind and went back to enjoying the adventure. _Here I am, she thought, riding across the Red Sea in Egypt, perched on the back of a camel, two hundred years before I was born._ She couldn't keep from grinning, and Jared caught and returned the grin, and didn't have to ask why.

Their camels, the one-hump dromedary variety found in this part of the world, were on the smaller side, which was fine, since they didn't intend to take them for any terribly long distances. Rose's was a light sandy tan, while Jared's was darker, more brown than tan. If they had Arabic names, Jared hadn't been told, so they were christened Sandy and Brownie by their new owners, who giggled at the British banality. Tock had circled warily for a time, while the camels eyed him suspiciously in return, but finally the three of them had seemed to reach a detente, if not a friendship, and the dog was now trotting happily alongside the little caravan of two.

They made it across and up the other bank before the tide began to turn, and Jared turned their camels' noses southeast towards the small oasis containing the spring at which legend had Moses stopping for water after the crossing. The pyramid was said to appear just to the north of the oasis.

They fell back into companionable silence on the way, lulled by the famed camelid rocking motion. With leisure to think uninterrupted for the first time since it had happened, Rose began to review her instant decision not to tell Jared of having seen the Doctor – and sending him packing. _No_ , she reconfirmed at length. _There's no point. I'll find other ways to tell him that he's my choice. If he finds out that the Doctor was here, and he didn't get a chance to see him or the TARDIS, that I didn't come find him and tell him, I don't know how he'll react, but it probably wouldn't be positive. And if he twigs that it was the TARDIS who resupplied the languages, especially if he finds out I asked her to do it, it would undermine all the gains he's making, all the good that would come from having them back. No._

The previous two years since their return to Beta had not been easy, for either of them, but especially for the half-Time Lord, half-human Jared. He seemed to be two people sometimes, one side the Doctor, and one side the brassy red-headed human male counterpart of Donna, and it had been a heavy struggle to integrate the two sides into a single whole, without losing the parts that (he thought) Rose had loved best – on top of dealing with all that he had lost in the transaction. He often sank into a blue funk, hating himself, his fate, and the whole parallel world, and Rose had had her hands full dealing with him then, as well as trying to heal her own wounds.

Gradually, though, over the last few months, his wilder side had seemed to calm down, the manic highs and soul-sucking lows had begun smoothing out, and both of them became more open and accepting of each other, and the possibilities of their new life together. So finally, they had at last set the long-awaited date for the wedding. Rose grimaced to herself. _If we manage to get back in time._ She glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of the time jumper attached to Jared's wrist. _Hopefully that thing will be more accurate than the TARDIS sometimes was._ Although she'd never had any way to determine whether those misses were the fault of the ship, or the pilot. She shrugged. _Ancient history now_ , she thought with a fleeting mental grin for the double-entendre. It occurred to her that she was blithely assuming that they would be able to accomplish whatever was needed to split Beta off. _Well, of course we will! If the others could do it solo, certainly Team Wolfe can do it together!_ Although she admitted she wasn't happy about the idea of making somebody disappear – let alone a couple thousand somebodies as Beta's history seemed to indicate. She didn't want blood on her hands.

 _Speaking of blood..._ Having settled the question of Jared, she turned to her own reactions, replaying the scene in the TARDIS again. Her hand tingled at the memory of the slap, and a small, satisfied smile crept across her face. She wasn't the vindictive type, but _damn_ , that had felt good. Just a tiny little bit of payback for the hell she'd been through. Even if it was a cliché.

 _And the rest?_ she asked herself. She thought again of his answer to her "Why?": he wanted her to be happy. Happier than she could have been with him in the long run – and maybe the short run, too. He certainly did seem to be a _completely_ different man now, as drastic a change as the one she had witnessed herself. And not for the better, as far as she was concerned. But then, any change away from the Doctor she had loved could only inevitably be for the worse in her view. But the fact that "her" Doctor had not "lived" much longer after their parting, according to what he had said, only made it all even easier to accept and process.

And that was it, she realized. The encounter now felt like closure, and it was. The poison had been leeched, and the wound was finally healed – the tiny remaining scar on her heart would not hold her back from anything. Now that she had had this glimpse of his future, she need never be curious about it again. She could at last turn without any remaining regrets to her own future – hers and Jared's. She wouldn't be clinging to her memories of her life in the TARDIS through the years, like Sarah Jane had seemed to be doing. Thinking of that other companion, Rose hoped that she had also found closure and been able to move on at last.

"There it is!" Jared called out in a low voice, breaking into her thoughts and pointing ahead to the spot of dusty green which had appeared in a shallow fold between the low desert hills. "Ayun Musa, the Wells of Moses."

 _Not much of an oasis_ , thought Rose, ruefully surveying the stunted scrub bushes and handful of tattered, dusty palm trees scattered across a bare half-acre and comparing them to the inevitable lush tropical paradises depicted in countless movies. She shook her head to rid herself of them; yet another Hollywood-inspired misconception shot to hell.

Jared led them into the oasis, _cooshed_ the camels onto their knees, and they slid off, then he slipped the rope hobbles around the camels' back ankles to keep them from wandering away. Taking Rose's hand, he then led her northward into the empty waste, peering and sniffing.

"It can't be far," he murmured.

There was no sign at all of anything out of the ordinary, no square of crushed sand that betrayed the presence of an unseen monument, no animal trails that suddenly swerved around an invisible impediment. They quartered the ten acres or so and crossed it three times, four... nothing. Rose was just about to suggest they break for lunch when suddenly Jared stopped, peering straight ahead and sniffing the air.

"Wait... wait..." was all he said. Then he stopped again, his head wilting to his chest, letting out an exasperated huff. "Jared Blue Wolfe, try not to be so bloody thick!" he castigated himself, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out the old sonic screwdriver, dialed up a setting, and began scanning the area with it.

Nothing at first. He tried a couple different settings, and then... the air before them _rippled_. "HAH!" He backed up a couple of steps and intensified the sonic's power, moving it around in a slow circle towards the spot.

Looking back and forth between him and the desert, Rose gasped, her eyes opening wide. Slowly, gradually, a triangular mirage was swimming into view out of the desert heat waves. It rose majestically up from the sands, darkening and solidifying, until finally it was suddenly, solidly, undeniably _there_ before them: a smooth-sided, ominous, jet-black pyramid, gleaming malevolently in the Sinai sun.

* * *

 **Freeze Frame**

"A-a-all righty, then!" Jared drawled, immensely pleased with himself now. He turned to Rose, twirling the sonic around his fingers and then dropping it back into his pocket with a flourish. "Twoja piramida, panienka!"

Swinging back before he could catch her blinking bemusement, he walked right up to the black stone and ran his hand over the surface admiringly. Rose joined him, for once wanting to touch it too, to believe. "What is it made of?" she asked.

"It's black marble," came the reply. "And seemingly cut from a single, solid block! I can't see any seams or cracks anywhere."

"Now _that's_ impressive." The edifice was about three stories tall, and the side they stood on was about forty feet long at the base. "So how do we get in?"

He took a step back and looked to either side. "Let's try the north side. That's the side most Egyptian pyramids have their entrances on."

"OK," she agreed. "Come on, Tock!" Looking around after she'd called to the dog, she realized he wasn't there at her heels as usual. "Tock?"

Jared swiveled around to look, too, and spotted Tock a moment later. The dog had backed away at the pyramid's appearance, and was crouched warily a dozen long strides off. At both their urging, he raised up a bit, but instead of bounding forward, he reacted with a low, unhappy whine, instead.

His two humans glanced at each other. Should they be worried? Just then, Tock's head swung around as if he'd heard something they didn't. He stared back at towards the distant oasis, head cocked, then looked back and forth between it and them two or three times, making up his mind. Finally, he leapt up and began loping back towards the spring, tail wagging as he emitted a happy-sounding bark.

"Tock!" Rose yelled after him, then turned again to share a mystified stare with Jared.

"Well, it's not trouble, or we'd be able to tell it from his bark. He'll be OK. Come on." Taking her hand, he lead her around to the far side.

And of course, there was a doorway there. A handful of steps had been carved into the marble, leading to a small recessed opening, apparently doorless, a few feet above the sand. It gaped blankly at them; the utter blackness of the pyramid and the apparent lack of light from within contrasting with the brilliant desert sands to keep their sight from penetrating. Nevertheless, Jared climbed up the steps without hesitation, with Rose only a step behind.

Ducking under the low lintel – the doorway was only a hair above five feet tall – they straightened up in an inky black room. The floor seemed to be made from the same black marble, which steadfastly refused to reflect onward any of the light coming from the entrance. Willing his eyes to adjust, Jared looked around and spied what looked like oil lamps carved right into the wall on either side of the door at shoulder height, pulled out his sonic again and buzzed it against the one on his side. It caught with a flare, then settled down into a steady flame – and then the other one lit, too, without any source. And so did six more, evenly spaced around the room.

The two explorers paused, then Rose merely quipped, "Handy." She stepped into the middle of the room and began peering around. The floor was scattered with bits of marble chips and other trash, layered over with dust.

"This must be where the statue of the Bad Wolf was found," Jared commented, and she nodded, then they lifted their eyes to inspect further.

The chamber was a perfect cube, about twelve feet in every direction. The walls were the same smooth, polished black marble, and still no signs of seams could be seen. Instead, every wall was carved, divided into three panels each, with a half-panel over the two doorways – the one they'd just entered by, and a twin on the opposite wall. And each panel was filled with hieroglyphics.

"Can you read it?" Rose asked, holding her breath. She'd no idea whether the ancient writing system had been retained in his memory; resupplied by the TARDIS as apparently many languages had been, judging by the odd foreign words he'd been unconsciously sprinkling into conversation; or still missing, erased in the metacrisis.

Staring closely at one panel, his eyes slowly traveled upwards. She waited. Finally, his head began shaking no. But his next words weren't what she was expecting as a result.

"It's not in Egyptian. It almost is, but..."

"What do you mean?"

"Some of these symbols are authentic Egyptian hieroglyphs." He pointed to a couple but didn't name them. "But only about half. The others are... something else. It's like... either this is a different language, a different writing system, that's related to the Egyptian or borrowed some of their symbols – or vice versa, or... it's just nonsense decoration, like somebody carved symbols they thought looked right, without having any meaning behind them. But it's gibberish." He swung around on one heel, checking the verdict against the other panels. "It's all gibberish."

Rose stepped towards the interior door. "Even that?" she motioned towards the line of writing carved over the lintel, in just the place you'd expect a warning of the mummy's curse to be.

Jared stepped up beside her and looked at it. He nodded. "Yup." Grimacing apologetically sideways at her, he added, "Sorry."

She shrugged, letting him off the non-existent hook, then peered through the doorway. As before, no light penetrated, and they could see nothing at all. "Shall we?"

"We've come this far," he replied encouragingly.

Grinning, she beat him to the punch, ducking down and walking carefully forward, both hands out in front of her to prevent running into anything. Watching from behind, Jared saw her get simply swallowed up in blackness; he couldn't even see her light-colored clothing. And just as suddenly, there was absolute silence – not even her breathing.

"Rose?... Rose!" Not hesitating another moment, Jared charged swiftly after her.

All sight was gone in an instant. His hands out before him, reaching for Rose, he stumbled forward several steps without touching a thing before he brought himself to a stop.

"Rose!" No answer.

No sight, no sound. It was as if the very air had solidified around him, though he could touch nothing. He swung his head around, trying to see back the way he'd come. Not even a single particle of light shone through the doorway he knew was there.

His single heart was racing, his coming in gasps. "OK, Jared. OK. Just stop. Calm down." He talked himself down from an incipient panic. "Think!"

Pulling out the sonic again, he thumbed it to a setting he almost never had to use, one which approximated visible light frequencies. It hurt his eyes to use it like a torch, which is why he avoided it. Holding it out at arm's length, he narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the gloom.

There was a shadow just to his right, roughly hunched-over human-shaped. Rose? Transferring the sonic to his left hand, he reached out – and his hand passed right through it. He did it again, slower, and … almost … felt _something_ cross his palm like mist. "OK," he murmured hesitantly.

Holding the sonic up higher, he slowly shuffled around, finding half a dozen more vaguely human-shaped shadows, each just as insubstantial. No matter how close he got, putting his face right up next to one, he couldn't make out anything but a slightly darker patch of black. No telling which was Rose.

Suddenly he realized he was presuming they were human. "Well, why not? Seems a reasonable assumption to go on with," he told himself. Just then, something caught the corner of his eye, and he swiveled rapidly that way. Was it a flash of light? He waited, and it came again, a single pixel of slightly-less-than-black space, roughly waist high, a few feet away. He stopped a moment to reorient himself. He could no longer be certain, since he'd been turning around and about, but he thought it was ninety degrees away from the doorway where he'd entered – not that he could see that feature, either.

Walking slowly towards where the flash had come from, he abruptly stopped as a curtain seemed to vaguely materialize before him. Putting out his hand again, he ran it though the area, feeling the same mist on his skin.

His eyes could take no more of the sonic's "light". He flicked it off, screwing his eyes shut and rubbing them. Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a puff – and froze, when it came back and hit him in the face! Purposely blowing harder, he felt it again. Something was right in front of him. Keeping his eyes shut, he reached out again at face level, feeling the mist. He blew again, and again felt it come back.

What could possibly deflect air, but not his flesh?

Opening his eyes again, he flicked through several settings on the sonic, testing, and finally found one that resonated in his ears at the same time that the pulses seemed to "light up" the object. It was a flat expanse – a wall. The wall of the chamber.

"What?" Brain working furiously, the answer finally began coming clear. "No... Yes, it is... Oh, my... this is... _brilliant!_ " He reached for the wall again, concentrating with all his might on the signals from his skin's nerves. "You froze time. Even to the very atoms." That's what he was feeling – without the electrons buzzing about the nuclei, the atoms that made up the wall just felt to him like mist. "But why isn't it affecting me?" he asked. "Well, because I'm a Time Lord, obviously." He blinked, then plowed ahead, filing that revelation away to deal with later. His face shone with appreciation for the designers of this trap.

"Completely, utterly brilliant! I hate turn it off..." Then he shrugged, nonchalantly accepting the inevitable. "Oh, well."

Flicking the sonic to yet another setting, he stepped back and pointed it at the wall where the flash had come from, assuming (and his assumptions were usually correct) that it marked the power source for whatever was working this technological magic. The pulses tore through the wall, absorbed by whatever was beyond it, but nothing changed. Moving his thumb to the miniscule slider control, Jared slowly varied the pitch, pulling in the harmonics tighter and tighter, higher and higher.

There! Suddenly the frequencies were everywhere, bouncing off invisible walls to whine back through his ears as he found exactly the right harmonic resonance pitch. He turned up the volume slowly, wincing as even his ears began complaining.

All at once the shrieking was ripped upwards through an even higher range, as feedback from the unseen machinery joined it. A moment later it was cut off with a crackling, fizzing explosion, seeming to come from all sides at once, burning his night-blinded corneas with a burst of brilliant white light. His thumb slipped off the sonic's control as he flinched automatically, and somehow _felt_ time itself within the chamber crunch, and then lurch forward again.

He whirled around, straining his eyes again through the sudden flickering torchlight, just in time to catch Rose as she stumbled, yelping, and fell into his arms. "Hello!" he laughed, picking her upright and setting her on her feet again.

She shook her head, clearing it. "Hello!" Obviously confused, but always willing to play their old game, she smiled up at him.

Movement was all around them, and Jared glanced up. The other shadows had indeed resolved themselves into humans – about half a dozen roughly-dressed men, some carrying torches – which explained the torchlight. They each gaped around at the sudden appearance of several other people where none had been a subjective instant before.

Jared filled his lungs and yelled something Rose didn't understand, and there was a sudden mad scramble for the exit. Jared laughed and pulled her away, out of their way. When the last one had cleared the doorway, as he leaned over to pick up the flickering torch one of them had dropped, she looked her puzzlement at him. "What did you say?"

He laughed again. "I said the royal guards were coming."

"Royal... guards? What? Who were they?"

"Grave robbers!" he replied sunnily. "Stuck here for god only knows how long. They're going to have quite a surprise when they get out there and try to go home again."

"What... what do you mean?"

He gestured around the chamber with the torch. "This was an incredibly sophisticated anti-theft device. A... a freeze-frame chamber. Anyone who found there way in was frozen in time." He looked at her closely. "How long were you in here, did it feel like?"

"No time at all," she replied. "I walked in, tripped, and then suddenly you were in front of me, catching me. You mean I was frozen?"

He nodded.

"But you weren't? Why?"

He brushed that off, pretending he hadn't heard, as he turned with the torch to inspect the walls. Unlike the outer chamber, these were smooth, without any carvings of any kind, nor any hints of the freeze-frame apparatus other than – now that he peered even more closely – an incredibly, almost invisibly fine wire grid crisscrossing the marble on every surface at approximately two-foot intervals. "What's fascinating me is who could have built this thing? Certainly not the ancient Egyptians. Where did it come from?"

"And when?" she added. "You don't recognize the technology?"

He shook his head. "No more than I recognized the writing out there."

"The question is, then... what was it guarding?"

Together, they turned and looked at the wall opposite the doorway. There, of course, was yet another blankly yawning opening, framing lightless black.

Looking sideways at each other, they both started grinning at the same instant. "Shall we go find out?" Rose asked impishly.

Jared reached down and took her hand again in his, lacing fingers. "Together this time," he said firmly.

Ducking down again, they squeezed side by side through the narrow doorway. And without any warning, any transition at all, in the blink of an eye they were suddenly stumbling down carved marble stairs matching those at the front of the pyramid, into bright, airy sunshine ….

… but not into desert.

All around them was green – open, grassy fields, some cultivated, with copses of trees in the distance tracing a waterway down to a distant stretch of blue water glinting in a vast lake. People could be seen in the middle distance working in the fields, pacing behind wooden plows being pulled by teams of some kind of cattle. To one side was a primitive-looking village of mud huts, their roofs crowned with rough thatch.

Jared whirled around suddenly, catching his breath in relief as the black pyramid still loomed behind them.

"Where..." Rose began. "Or... when?" She turned to stare at Jared, who raised his eyebrows back.

The time jumper on his wrist chirped softly, having "read" the locality in spacetime. He raised his arm and flipped it open, then his jaw dropped down to his chest.

"We've gone back... eight thousand years..."

* * *

 **Side Trip**

Jared was getting seriously annoyed. He'd re-entered the pyramid and back through the freeze-frame chamber (checking to be sure it was still disabled first), and had spent fifteen fruitless minutes searching for controls for either the chamber or the portal – or any access to any other part of the pyramid. Nothing. As far as his senses and the sonic could tell him, aside from those two hollow rooms, the entire edifice was a single, solid block of marble. The only answer that suggested itself was that the freeze-frame chamber was to prevent unauthorized use of the portal – but that no-brainer didn't help any of the other questions at all.

"Can you tell where it came from? Or when? Or who made it?" Rose asked – a little incautiously.

"Not with this stupid tool," Jared muttered angrily. He almost threw the sonic across the floor, but managed to put it in his pocket instead. "If I had the TARDIS, I could tell you everything," he continued bitterly.

Rose shot a sympathetic glance at her intended's back, and decided to lead him back out into the sunshine. "Where are we, anyway?"

"I told you, eight thousand years in the past."

"Yeah, but _where_? This isn't the Sinai!"

"Actually, it is. Climate change. Back then there was no desert in north Africa, it was all savannah, clear across the continent. He nodded towards the distant water. "That's the Red Sea there, and those trees," indicating the nearby grove, "mark the Ayun Musa spring."

Sighing heavily, he sat down on the pyramid's steps, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his face a study in disgust and disappointment. Rose came and sat quietly beside him. "What is it, love?" she asked softly.

"This adventure isn't quite turning out how I'd hoped," he finally admitted. "I have no idea who made this thing or what it's doing here."

"So?" She shook her head, perplexed. "I thought the whole idea of adventures was the discovery. Finding out new things!"

"Yeah, but..."

"But what?"

Finally, he took a deep breath and admitted it. "I'm just worried that you're gonna decide you made the wrong choice."

She scoffed quietly, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "Because you don't know everything? Don't be ridiculous." The light, teasing tone didn't seem to be helping, so she dropped it and turned earnest. "Love, don't you know I'd choose you again? And again? Even if we went back to that same bloody beach and relived the whole thing? I'd still choose you."

He turned and looked at her, searching her eyes for confirmation yet again. "Really?"

"Yes." She poured as much finality and certainty as she could into that quiet syllable. "What do I have to do to prove it to you?" A recent memory skittered through her mind, and her mouth quirked. "Find the Doctor and slap him?"

He blinked, then snorted, and finally chuckled. Then he paused. "Would it reflect terribly badly on me if I admitted I wouldn't mind seeing that?"

She chuckled back at him. Then, taking his arm and snuggling closer, "Well, I can't exactly go find him – and wouldn't want to if I could – but just consider him slapped."

Letting her keep hold of his arm, he reached across with that hand and caressed her other knee, squeezing it in lieu of a hug, then leaned over and kissed her forehead. "OK."

They sat silently for a minute before Jared returned to the matter at hand. "Well," he began. "At least we know how to make Napoleon disappear now. All we have to do is lure him into the pyramid and shove him through the portal."

"Sure," she agreed, then looked quizzically back at him. "How?"

He chewed his lip and grimaced. "Well, I can think of one way, but... you're not gonna like it."

"What's that?"

Taking a deep breath, he glanced sideways at her face, apprehensive. "He always was a womanizer, even all through his marriages. In fact, he had a well-known affair with a subordinate's wife right here during the Egyptian campaign."

Rose's eyebrows shot skyward, anger seeping into her voice. "Are you seriously suggesting... that I _seduce_ him?"

"It was just the first thing that popped into my head!" came his disclaimer.

She was now outraged. "Well you can pop it back where the sun doesn't shine, Jared Blue Wolfe, because if that's what has to happen, then _it's not going to happen!_ "

He looked back into her furious eyes, and then... Jared Blue Wolfe proved he was actually smarter than the Doctor. He shut his mouth with a gulp and didn't say another word.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he affixed a fake little smile on his mouth, lips staying firmly glued shut. Another beat, and then his eyebrows shot up innocently, and that got her. She snorted, laughter tumbling out past her unwilling guard, sweeping away her pique at him. His laughter joined hers a moment later, and he relaxed again, let off the relationship hook.

"OK, we'll think of something else."

"Good idea," she agreed.

"Well," he said a moment later, "may as well head back." Standing, he took her hand and pulled her up, too.

"Through the portal?"

"Nooooo, no, no, no. With no controls on it – that I could find – there's no telling where or when we'd end up." He tapped the time jumper with a finger. "No, we'll use this."

He led her a short distance away, then began programming the jumper to return them to the last reading it had snagged in 1798, adjusting it minutely to put them outside the pyramid on their return. Then, taking her hand again with a smile, Jared pushed Execute.

Rose had enough subjective time during that jump to decide once and for all that no, she really didn't like this method of travel. Hurtling through the timestream without benefit of a vehicle felt as if her skin were being sandpapered off, while "fingernails on the blackboard" didn't do justice to the horrific screeching wind that seemed to bounce through several octaves and back again. She winced at one particularly piercing note –

– and suddenly they hit an unseen barrier, bouncing off _something_ in their path. Rose screamed as she felt Jared's hand ripped away from hers! She tried to turn her head to look for him, but an instant later she slammed face first into a hot, dry, gritty surface, knocking the breath out of her lungs.

Spluttering and gasping for air, she pushed away from the barrier. The world spun around once as gravity reasserted itself, and she realized she was lying _on_ a horizontal surface, pushing herself _up_. And the surface was sand. The desert, to be precise.

She plopped over onto her rear and sat, wiping sand from her face with one long sleeve and spitting it out of her mouth. Then, when she was sure she wouldn't get sand in her eyes, she opened them again and squinted carefully around. She was apparently back at Ayun Musa. She'd landed among the stunted trees surrounding the spring.

"Jared?" She listened. No reply, not even a cricket chirp.

" _Jared?_ JARED!" Rose scrambled unsteadily to her feet and looked around wildly. No sign of him anywhere.

She drew another breath to call his name again, but just then, a familiar noise burst on her ears. A familiar, happy bark.

Tock came bounding up to her, wagging his tail. She glanced in the direction he'd come from and saw the black pyramid in the middle distance, right where they'd found it.

"So that's who you ran off to, buddy," she chuckled. "Me." Kneeling down to pet the happy pooch, she suffered a few licks to the face. Then, "Tock, find Jared. Where's Jared? Find him!"

Tock looked around, sniffing the air for the scent of his master. Then... he sat back down and gave her a doggy grin, tongue lolling. The message was clear: Jared was nowhere around.

Rose sat down again, hard, blinking against sudden, fearful tears. "Where are you, Jared? Where are you? Where did you land? When?"

Getting a hold of herself, she forced herself to take several deep breaths and then shook her head to clear it. "Well, he's got the time jumper, and he knows where and when we were coming to. He'll get here." A deep breath. "I just have to wait." She raised a sardonic eyebrow, adding to the dog, "Hopefully it won't take five and a half hours this time." He licked his lips in agreement.

She decided to put the time to good use, and stood up again, looking around for their camels. They hadn't wandered very far, and were nibbling leaves off one of the bushes near the spring. Catching their bridles, Rose led them slowly (due to their hobbles) inside the low walls marking the open caravanserai and over to a corner, then _cooshed_ them down onto their knees and unloaded their supplies. Gathering brush and – trying not to think about it – old, dried camel dung, she got a pungent fire going with her matches, and set a pot of rice and shaved dried meat to cook in some of the slightly salty-tasting water from the spring, opening a spice packet and sprinkling the contents lightly over the top.

Then she spread out a blanket between the fire and Sandy, who seemed content to stay where she was, long legs folded beneath her. Rose leaned against the camel and pulled out the paperback provided by Jack, deciding to use the time to find out what had happened here in Alpha.

And the book was no help at all. It had precisely six paragraphs – a page and a half – on Napoleon's trip to Suez, and only mentioned in a single terse sentence that he had made – was going to make – a day trip out to the very spring where she now waited. Not even the date was specified.

"Well," Rose commented ruefully. "Thanks, Jack." She kept reading, just to keep her mind occupied.

By the time the rice was cooked, there was still no sign of Jared. She mounded some of the mixture on a brushed-off flat rock for Tock, keeping him away from it until it was cooled enough to eat, then spooned a serving onto a small metal camp plate from their packs for herself, leaving a generous portion in the pot for her mate. She ate slowly, looking out over the desert to the sun setting beyond the Red Sea a mile or so to the west. Her hand missed the feeling of his strong one holding it, and she tried to suppress the recurring memory of the moment it was ripped away.

The sun was down, and the temperature dropping rapidly – it was still December, after all. Banking the embers, she wrapped herself up in her coat and the other blanket, then laid down next to Sandy, calling Tock over to her other side to keep them all warm, and slowly, sniffling, willed herself to sleep.

Where was Jared?

* * *

 **Morning**

A bird singing in a nearby bush awoke Rose, and she opened her eyes to find the dawn, confused to be under the open sky. A moment later, memory came rushing back. She lifted her head, then struggled to sit up, groaning at muscles made sore by a night on the hard ground. She quickly looked all around her, and then sagged, wilting. There was no change at all from the night before. No sign of Jared.

"So much for five and a half hours." She'd have been angry if she weren't so afraid.

Tock got up from where he'd lain all night beside her, stretching, then sat and gazed at his mistress. Rose reached out and took the pot with the remains of last night's supper from the edge of the now-dead fire, took off the lid and set it down for the dog. "Here you go, buddy." She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself to rummage in the food pack for a couple of dates and managed to swallow them, washing them down with a few swigs of water from the skins.

She looked around at the two camels, still on the ground, and they turned their heads to gaze calmly back. "I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to feed you," she confessed. "But I think you're supposed to be able to go a couple of days without food, and you don't exactly look like you're starving. I'll take you over to graze on that brush later on." There was a bushy area a dozen yards away outside the caravanserai walls.

Then she picked herself up, copying Tock's stretch, then folded the two blankets up and put them on top of the packs she'd removed from the camels the night before and stored by the wall. She gazed at the dog while he finished licking the pot, gathering the courage to face the facts, then heaved a heavy sigh and made herself stand up straight.

"Well, I guess it's up to me, then. I'll wait here till Napoleon comes – should only be a day or two – and then lure him into exploring the pyramid – "

She stopped dead, gasping. As she was talking to herself, she'd turned to the north to gaze at the object in question...

… and saw nothing but sand. The pyramid had disappeared.

"No... no, no, NO!" All else forgotten, Rose scrambled over the waist-high mud wall and ran out into the desert. She stumbled to a stop at the top of a low rise and stood hugging herself and gasping, as she did a slow 360, making sure she wasn't just looking in the wrong direction.

She wasn't. There was no sign of the pyramid. And she was absolutely certain that she'd come to the exact same spot where Jared had stood the day before to buzz it into existence with his sonic. Looking down at the sand, she slowly paced north until she spied their footprints. There it was, marked with several of his bootprints, and her smaller ones a couple of feet away. But the sand in front of the spot was utterly empty, as blank as it had been then. There was still no marks in the sand that signaled where it had sat, no trails around it. No indication of any sort that a pyramid had been there – not even the few scraggly plants in the middle were crushed.

"I am Not. Going. Crazy," she told herself firmly. "It was Right. Here."

Her eyes sank closed, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing. _I'm not the crying type, dammit!_ Standing there with her eyes closed, she had an idea. She kept them tightly shut, held both hands out before her, and started inching forward, trying to find the marble monument by touch. Maybe it was only eyes that were fooled? She concentrated as hard as she could on her palms and fingertips, _willing_ them to feel _something_.

Several long minutes later, she stopped dead, her hands dropping uselessly to her sides. She was fooling herself. She turned and looked back, knowing what she'd see: she'd come a good twenty yards past where the thing had stood.

She slowly trudged back to where she'd started, remembering how Jared had whistled it up with his sonic. Her face twisted. "All right, that's it," she growled. "When we get back home, Mister Wolfe, you are making me my own sonic screwdriver and teaching me how to use it." She blinked back tears, ruthlessly squashing the fear that she might never... She didn't even finish the sentence in her mind.

She thought back to Selim in the town. "I wonder if the locals know how to make it appear?" What little she remembered didn't sound like they did, but it was worth a shot. "Or know how often it does on its own?" She turned back towards the spring, thinking about whether she dared make the trip back, since she didn't know what day Napoleon would be coming out.

Just then, the sound that had been slowly growing in the distance finally claimed her attention: the sound of a camel caravan on the move, with jingling bells, grumbling animals, and sharp commands coming from human throats. Coming in from the south were a line of the desert beasts, about twenty of them, each with a rider or a large pack, and about a dozen men walking along on foot.

"Shiiiiit." It suddenly struck her that she was all alone in the desert, in an extremely male-dominated culture, practically defenseless. All she had was the knife at her belt – and her canine protector. She glanced at Tock now, checking his reaction. He was alert, looking at the caravan and sniffing at the wind, but he didn't seem to be radiating danger.

They had seen both her camels and, a moment later, herself out on the sands; her bright clothing had not exactly made her inconspicuous. Walking swiftly, but trying to look not overly concerned, she went back down to the caravanserai and sat on the pack next to the wall, watching warily.

They were definitely stopping over. The camels _cooshed_ outside the walls to be unloaded, then were led inside and hobbled in the far corner from her own, about fifty feet away, and all the while the men kept glancing at her – there didn't seem to be any women in the group. Meanwhile, a large tent was magically extracted from the packs and erected on the far side of the spring.

A short time later, she noticed a delegation of two men approaching. They walked slowly – almost regally – giving her time to get a good look. Their grey beards flowed several inches over long black robes, and they each had a black pillbox hat on their head.

She stood up as they neared, and the duo stopped a few feet away, staring at her curiously and tilting their heads in a gracious little bow. One of them spoke a few words, ending in a question? - but of course, it meant nothing. The TARDIS hadn't given her any languages; she hadn't asked her to – and only now did she _really_ regret that oversight.

"I'm sorry," she smiled apologetically, shaking her head. "I don't understand."

They glanced at each other, puzzled. A few more sentences, each incomprehensible. Then, conferring again, the two of them half-turned and invited her back towards the tent with friendly smiles and gracious gestures.

Now what should she do? Could she trust them? She glanced down at Tock, standing beside her. "What do you think, buddy? Is it safe?" He looked back up at her curiously, then walked up to one of the men to sniff at him. The sniffee smiled and let the dog smell his fingers, then patted Tock on the head. The dog sat on his haunches, relaxed, and grinned back at his mistress, tongue lolling.

Rose laughed. "Well, I guess that's as good as a guarantee." The two men in black chuckled, apparently understanding the sentiment if not the words, and repeated the inviting gesture. This time she smiled back and went with them.

She was escorted to the front of the tent, whose wide door flaps had been drawn and tied back, and then shown inside. Amazingly, chairs and a low table had somehow been contrived from the camels' packs. Sitting majestically in one of the chairs was an even older man, also dressed in black, but his robes were even more elaborate, and he wore a long headdress that reminded her of a nun's habit. Then, as her escort spoke with him, she spied the medallion on his chest: a palm-sized, diamond-shaped flat golden disk with what looked like the portrait of a woman painted on it – and it all fell into place.

"Oh! You're the monks from St Catherine's!" The single line in the book about Napoleon's trip to Ayun Musa had said he would meet this delegation from the monastery at the foot of Mt Sinai here.

All three men looked at her curiously, and she smiled and bowed her head briefly, indicating her respect for the peaceful religious men. Then the seated man motioned her into the chair opposite him, and she sat, gratefully. Tock went to sniff his hand as he had done the other, received the same beatific smile and head scratch, and then returned to sit at Rose's feet. The monk asked her several questions, in what sounded like different languages, but each time she shook her head. Communication, it looked like, would not be possible. "I'm sorry," she kept repeating.

He waved his hands at her, patting the air reassuringly. Then another man dressed in white, perhaps a servant, entered the tent carrying, incongruously, a delicate china tea service. He set it on the low table, poured two cups of fragrant tea, handed one to the monk and one to Rose, bowed, and left again, all without a word.

Rose inhaled the inviting aroma and smiled. It wasn't Earl Grey, but it sure smelled good. Looking up again, she caught the monk's eye and smiled. "Thank you." He bowed his head again, then took a sip, so she copied him, enjoying the delicious brew. The monk then turned his head and began conversing with the men who had escorted her in, but it didn't seem rude to Rose – it didn't seem like they were discussing her, particularly. She merely sat for a while and enjoyed the tea, which slowly seeped through her body, relaxing her for the first time since... well, since her kidnapping, basically. She gazed at the table, slowly following the delicate inlaid patterns, not thinking of much of anything, just for a while...

Her cup of tea was almost gone when a clatter from outside the tent aroused her from her contemplation. The monk rose from his seat, giving her an almost absent smile, then walked outside, so she carefully put her cup down on the table and followed, peering out into the sunshine.

Riding fast towards the oasis was a group of horsemen, the sun flashing off gaudy, dark blue, European style military uniforms full of epaulets, braid, buttons and medals. And in the lead, as they swept into the new camp and pulled to a flashy, rearing stop before the tent, was a handsome, arrogant man whom Rose recognized instantly from the dozens of drawings and paintings reproduced in Jack's paperback.

General Napoleon Bonaparte had arrived.

* * *

 **Frustration**

The rest of that day would surely go down as one of the single most frustrating days in Rose's entire life.

Napoleon took in her appearance with a single, swift – and appreciative – glance, as he strode arrogantly up to the head monk and began conversing through an interpreter. As Rose spoke neither French nor Arabic _(why didn't I think to ask the TARDIS for myself, too?)_ , she understood not a word, not even when the monk turned and gestured graciously towards her.

"Madame?" came the curious, courteous invitation to speak from the famous general.

She spluttered a bit before she managed to reply, blushing, feeling completely and unexpectedly out of her depth. "I... I'm sorry. I don't speak French."

"Vous êtes Anglais?" came from the astonished Napoleon, at the same time as one of the men crowding behind him echoed the question – but finally in words she could comprehend!

"You're English?"

She turned to him with relief. "Yes!" Before she could get another word out, he interrupted, unexpectedly identifying her.

"You're Madame Picard, no?"

Rose blinked, then in a flash remembered Jared blurting out the sci-fi alias back in Suez. "Yes, I am."

"General Bon told us of you and your husband," he explained then turned and spoke to Napoleon, obviously introducing her. She shared a quick mutual wordless nod and smile of greeting with the general, then her savior swung back with the most important question of all: "But where is he? Monsieur Picard?"

The long night of worry came rushing back, and she didn't have to pretend distress. "I don't know. He disappeared!" While he provided a running translation for Napoleon and the other Europeans who now crowded around (and, she noticed absently, the Egyptian translator relaying it into Arabic for the monks), Rose began carefully explaining the situation – only making a few minor "tucks".

"We came out yesterday to investigate reports of a mysterious pyramid that sometimes appears here, on the north side of the oasis. And it was here! My husband found the way inside and was exploring it. I came back to get some tools from our camels, but when I turned around again, it had disappeared – with him inside!"

"What do you mean, it disappeared? How can a building vanish? Where was it?"

She gestured to the north, and as one, the group of men turned to gaze at the accusingly empty vista.

The English-speaker slowly swiveled back, skepticism etched on his face. "Madame..." he began condescendingly.

Rose interrupted him that time, for she'd spied a familiar face. Selim was lurking near the back of the group – he must have been hired by the French contingent as a local guide. "Ask him," she said urgently, pointing him out. "Ask him about the black pyramid, and about the... the bad wolf."

"Bad wolf?" came the nonplussed response.

"Just ask him." Tock was calmly sitting by her side, and she let her hand rest on his head while she stared at Selim, who looked increasingly uncomfortable.

It took a few minutes to coax it out of the reluctant Egyptian through the interpreter, but finally he admitted to the local legend of the black pyramid, and that the dog had been an astonishing match to the statue said to have been retrieved from inside the pyramid many long years before.

Excitement swept through the group then, and Rose thought she might be on her way to accomplishing her mission: luring Napoleon and his men inside and through the portal to god-only-knows when. She managed to relay the question of whether Selim knew how the pyramid could be made to appear, but the answer, startled and apprehensive but firm, was No.

Bonaparte reasserted command then, reminding all that he did have other business, after all: a conference with the august Abbot of St Catherine's (Rose's mouth curved in a tiny smile of satisfaction that she'd pegged the monks' origin correctly). So he selected a pair of his companions and the interpreter, and imperiously swept the holy men back into the tent, leaving Rose and the English-speaking gentleman to mount an investigation into the pyramid with the rest of the men.

"I am Gaspard Monge, by the way, Madame," he introduced himself at last.

"Rose. Rose Tyler Picard," she managed to add the alias without stumbling or smirking over it. _Soon to be Rose Wolfe – at least it BETTER be!_ she added mentally.

She and Monge (who, when she asked, confirmed that he was one of the corps of scientists) led the way out to where the pyramid had been sitting the day before. But the day deteriorated rapidly from there, for of course there was absolutely no sign whatsoever of the monument's existence, then or ever. And shortly even hers and Jared's footprints had been thoroughly scuffed out by the throng of men tramping back and forth, leaving her less and less sure of the exact location.

It wasn't long before the others began giving up, drifting back to loll under the scrawny trees in the oasis in twos and threes, laughing and joking. At her expense, probably.

"Madame..." Monge finally said to her, apologetically. "There is nothing here."

Rose looked beseechingly at Selim, who had stayed to the last as if attempting to make up for some shortcoming. But he merely gazed back apologetically and shrugged, then turned back to the springs himself.

She trudged back to her packs, Tock still loyally at her side, and collapsed on them in despair. After a moment of silence, she heard Monge move off, returning to the tent.

 _Now what? What am I supposed to DO?_ She almost felt like tearing her hair out in frustration. _How the hell am I supposed to get Napoleon through that damn portal if it won't even appear?_ A long, excruciating hour slowly dragged itself by, marked by the palm shadows drifting silently across the sand, and still no answers occurred to her. _Maybe that's not what I'm supposed to do after all?_ _Maybe there's something else?_ Although she could not for the life of her think of a way she could make a couple dozen French troops and the world-famous general simply disappear in the desert without a trace – let alone the "couple thousand" men Jared had said the Beta histories reported lost.

A sharp clatter roused her from her reverie, and she looked up to see yet another troop of horsemen arrive, but these were definitely Arabs, riding in from the deep desert to the east. They swung arrogantly down from their magnificent horses, brightly-colored robes and flashing metal weapons and jewelry augmenting the rich trappings on their mounts as proof of their wealth and importance. Napoleon and the Abbot came out of the tent, introductions were made all around, and the top two or three newcomers joined the bigwigs back inside the tent for another apparent round of talks. Watching from her far corner of the caravanserai, Rose saw Monge join them this time.

And so the long, frustrating afternoon dragged on. Shortly after the arrival of the Arabs, one of the Frenchmen hesitantly approached her little campsite, offering lunch: somehow they'd contrived to bring along some cold roast chicken and some skins of wine. She accepted the food gratefully, sharing scraps of the bird with Tock, but declined the pantomimed invitation to join the men. After burying the bones and checking the camels, who still showed no signs of wanting to graze, she sank dejectedly back into her morose brown contemplation.

Finally, finally, as the sun was beginning to sink in the west, the talks broke up. Napoleon came striding out, conferring with his subordinates. Monge apparently was giving him an update on the afternoon, gesturing at her several times and out towards the empty sands. Bonaparte listened quietly, then gave a sharp, decisive nod and barked out a few short commands. No doubt as to what they were, as his troop sprang into action, saddling their horses and preparing to return to Suez.

Monge loped over to Rose. "Madame, you are... requested... to return with us. Have no fear, the general will get to the bottom of your husband's disappearance. But there is nothing more to be done here." His hesitation on the polite word revealed the hidden command, but Rose had nothing better to do. She felt sure she wasn't going to accomplish anything out here on her own. And truth be told, she didn't care for the looks she was getting from the Arabs as they went about setting up camp for the night. She didn't care to share the oasis with them protected only by Tock, regardless of how good a guard dog he had been in the past.

Nodding wordlessly to Monge, she stood and began reloading the camels, finding she had some unexpected help from Selim and the interpreter. Shortly she was ready, and she mounted Sandy again, leading Brownie by his long reins, and joined the rear of the French horse troop, ignoring the pair of armed soldiers who "just happened" to fall in watchfully behind her.

By then the sun was truly setting, and Napoleon set a fast pace back to the Red Sea crossing. Rose remembered Jared telling her of the tides, and tried to remember the timing. Would they make it back and across before they were caught by the rising waters?

Just as the question crossed her mind, they came into view of the crossing point, and she caught her breath. It was already under a few inches of water, swirling ominously under the rapidly darkening, moonless sky. Looking ahead, she spied the interpreter speaking urgently to the general at the head of the line, pointing away to their right, urging him to go around the end of the bay.

But Napoleon completely ignored him and plunged unhesitatingly down the bank, his horse's hooves splashing into the rising waters.

The others in the troop followed their magnetic leader automatically, splashing their horses in behind him. Rose's camels, however, were having none of it. Sandy stopped dead at the top of the low bank and dug in her heels, bawing obstinately, while Tock joined in, barking at her as if trying to tell her something urgent. Rose couldn't afford to try to understand him, but urged the camel forward, clucking and speaking in both English and the Arabic command she'd learned, and even – growing more and more irritated and humiliated – using the little guide stick a little less than kindly on the camel's hindquarters, all to no avail. The camel simply refused to budge. Brownie began backing up, pulling his reins out of her distracted hands, and loped a dozen yards away from the waters.

The French troop had stopped to see what was going on at her two guards' shouts, which were also turning steadily more angry, and finally several splashed back, including Napoleon. He gave a sharp command, which of course she didn't understand. Then Monge was there. "You must leave the camel, Madame. Ride behind Villefort."

Villefort was a young soldier, slender and lightweight enough that his horse could carry double. He reined his horse around beside Sandy and reached out his arm to help her cross.

"But my things!"

"Leave them, Madame! There's no time! We must go!"

Rose drew breath to argue, while Tock kicked his sharp, warning racket up a notch. But she'd run out of time and the general's patience. He shouted another terse command, his face reddening in fury, and suddenly there were two rifles pointed at Rose. The veneer of courtesy had been stripped away, and her status was suddenly plain: prisoner. She had no choice but to obey, awkwardly slithering down from Sandy's higher back and landing behind Villefort's saddle. The soldier kicked his horse forward into the water as she grabbed him around the waist and held on tight.

She turned her head and called to Tock to follow, again and again, but the dog refused to enter the water, pacing agitatedly back and forth. All she could do was watch helplessly as the bank fell rapidly behind them, disappearing within seconds into the dark – the sun had sunk below the horizon while she'd argued with Sandy.

Tears streaming down her face, she choked back sobs at leaving her faithful companion, while trying to ignore the water now rushing, cold and black and ominous under the faint stars above, past the horses' knees all around her.

And out of the dark behind them came a heartrending, desperate howl.

* * *

 **Black Water**

And the waters kept rising.

Within minutes it was brushing the bellies of their horses, splashing and soaking the riders' feet and lower legs. Rose had lost all sense of direction in the moonless night, and was concentrating as hard as she could on just keeping her precarious perch behind Villefort's saddle. He obviously didn't mind her tight hug around his waist, occasionally patting her hands reassuringly. Their pace had slowed to a crawl as the horses struggled through the swirling, frigid currents threatening to sweep them off their feet at every moment.

And it kept rising still.

It had reached Rose's knees when sudden panicky shouts came from her left. She peered that way to see several of the horses had indeed lost their footing and were actually swimming, trying to feel the bottom, their riders clinging to their necks. They guided their mounts back to the right, where the rest of the party were still on their feet – barely.

And it kept inching higher.

Napoleon reigned his horse to a stop and roared a command for all to halt. A torrent of terse French followed from the General, accompanied by sharp gestures in all directions. Rose understood nothing, but watched as the men all around her formed themselves into a strange configuration: a large circle around their General, each facing directly outwards like spokes on a giant wheel. Villefort began to move into place, but another sharp word brought him and Rose back to Napoleon's side; apparently their horse was too heavily loaded for this maneuver, whatever it was.

And still the waters rose.

When the circle was complete, Napoleon barked a sharp order, and each man started moving cautiously forward, directly outward and enlarging the circle. Almost immediately, two horses side by side lost their footing and began swimming, and their riders brought them back, each moving over to walk behind a horse which was still on its feet. Twice more this happened in rapid succession, creating a large gap on one side of the circle, before Rose suddenly grasped the concept. They were feeling their way along, seeking out the sand bar that made the ford at low tide. As it became evident that the ridge they sought was to one particular side of the party, Napoleon and Villefort edged their horses in that direction behind the others.

And still the tide kept coming.

Another storm of shouts came from the edge, as a horse stumbled, and this time the rider was swept completely off the saddle. The man, a portly older soldier with a great deal of glitter on his epaulets, was immediately in deep trouble; he couldn't seem to stay next to his horse but was pulled several feet away in a moment, and the reins were ripped out of his hands. He was swept in the next instant against one of his companions, who grabbed the man's arm and held on with a mighty effort. Another Frenchman caught the reins of the loose horse, and they began reuniting man and mount. It wasn't until he swung his stump over the saddle that Rose recognized him and realized the problem: it was General Caffarelli, whose wooden leg had apparently been lost in the waters. No wonder he couldn't stay in the saddle when his horse went into the drink.

And that's when it hit her, with a chill as cold as the water that now sloshed across her thighs.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes involuntarily drawn to the famous Corsican general only an arm's length away. Was this what she was supposed to do? It would be so easy. Just slip off the horse as if knocked off by the waves and grab him on the way down. Pull him below the swirling waters and let the current take him.

Time slowed to a crawl, her breath coming in short gasps that thundered in her own ears, hours apart. _Is this it? Am I supposed to drown him? And myself?_ For clearly she wouldn't survive it either.

The stars had trebled in intensity, their light dancing on his wet black hair. Wind whistled through her bones, turning them to ice. She shifted her hips, an inch to the side, loosening her tight thigh grip on the horse's flanks, and her hand drifted out towards Napoleon Bonaparte...

… and stopped. She couldn't do it.

As if he sensed something momentous, Napoleon's head whipped around, and he stared straight at her, through her, and the world froze on a single frame.

And then he glanced away.

Her hand sank down, and then numbly returned to grip Villefort's waist. He hadn't noticed a thing. "I can't do it," she sobbed quietly into his shoulder. "I can't."

"Madame?" Villefort asked over his shoulder.

"Nothing," she replied, a little louder, then dragged out the French word thin air. "Rien." He shrugged and went back to concentrating on helping his horse keep its footing.

 _I can't do it_ , she repeated to herself. _I'm not a murderer. I can't._

 _There has to be another way. There MUST be!_

The deep-water gap had grown to take up a third of the circle, and those riders had formed longer lines behind those still on higher ground. All at once, a shout rose from several throats, pulling Rose's attention out of herself again, and she turned to look. They were pointing out into the dark, and she looked to see a far-off glow. She squinted, and it resolved itself into distant flames. Someone had set a large fire somewhere on dry land.

Napoleon seized on the signal – inadvertent or not – and shouted at his men. All of them converged on the lines heading in that general direction, abandoning the other quarters. Not long after that, one of the leaders stepped onto a definitely higher level, his white horse's withers rising Venus-like out of the black water. Within a minute, the entire party was once again on the sand bar, making headway towards the light.

The waters continued to rise, but they had a destination now, and each of them rode with confidence and determination, their spirits soaring.

All but Rose.

She stayed a lead weight behind Villefort, her heart in pieces. Had she failed?

They scrambled up the bank onto dry land at last, just as the belated, waning moon at last began to rise behind them, and discovered the source of the flames: some of Napoleon's men left behind in Suez had set a house on the shoreline ablaze as a beacon to guide their beloved General safely across. A minor celebration took place, Napoleon thanking the men for their actions, and then tossing off some wry remark that had everyone laughing. Then they turned their exhausted horses towards Suez and slowly walked them the last mile back.

Rose still sat frozen. The entire adventure, which had seemed so easy at the beginning – the two of them could certainly pull this off easily! – had gone completely sideways. Jared was still missing. Tock was somewhere back on the other side of the rushing waters of the Red Sea. And Beta – home – seemed further away than it ever had, even when they had been struggling across ReichWorld.

 _Jared, where ARE you?_

* * *

 **And Back Again**

… _Rose …_

She sat bolt upright in bed, gasping out his name, startled out of a deep, exhausted sleep at the sound – she thought – of her name. _"Jared?"_

Her head whipped around, staring into the corners of the small, bare chamber she'd been given, expecting to see him.

Empty. Silent. Dark. No Jared.

She looked towards the door, but there was no sound from the passageway outside, either. Sobbing helplessly, she wilted back onto the paper-thin pillow, as desolation swamped her anew. She must have been dreaming.

After escaping the wild incoming tide, the group of soldiers had straggled into the town and to the large house Napoleon had taken over for his stay. He'd barely glanced at his captive, but ordered her be put under guard in this small back bedroom. She'd stripped off her wet clothes and hung them on the waiting pegs pounded into the adobe walls and simply tumbled into the cot, asleep within seconds.

Now she laid staring at the dark ceiling, her thoughts churning. Several hours had apparently passed, but it was still the middle of the night, judging by the cold, pale moonlight coming though the single small window.

What was she going to do now? She hadn't a clue. The book – still in the pack on Sandy, wherever she was – had said that after only a few days here in Suez, Napoleon would head back towards Cairo, detouring toward the north to look for the ancient canals (and eventually discovering some signs of them) along the way. Her chances of making anything happen were rapidly slipping away. A clichéd vision of the last grains of sand seeping through an hourglass flashed through her mind, and she grimaced, scrunching up her face against the threatening tears.

… _Rose …_

She froze, catching her breath. This time she knew she heard it, and instantly recognized it. This was just how the Doctor had called her to Darlig Ulv Stranden all those years ago for that one last holographic conversation.

Slowly she sat up again, listening as hard as she could. "Jared..." she whispered aloud, knowing he couldn't hear the sound. Then suddenly she was silently screaming his name in her mind, _thinking_ it as hard as she could. _*JARED!*_ She had no idea how this telepathy thingy worked, but she hoped against hope that somehow, if he could speak to her mind, then he could listen to it, as well.

She held her breath again, waiting...

… _Rose …_

Had it worked?

… _Come back to the Portal … I'll bring you across …_

She mentally screamed again. _*I'M COMING!*_

She waited for an endless moment. Had he heard?

Silence.

Then...

… _Love you …_

She couldn't have said what it was, but _something_ faded away before she could reply, and she knew the connection had been broken. She had to assume that he'd heard.

She threw back the ragged blanket and stood up on the cold tile floor, reaching for her clothes – miraculously already bone dry in the desiccating desert air – and slipping them quietly on again. She had sat down again to put on her boots when it hit her.

She was in Suez, miles away from the springs, without transportation – and the tide was probably still blocking the way across the channel. And there was the issue of the disappearing pyramid. Would it be there now?

She took a deep breath and blew it out, making herself go on with the boots. _Cross that bridge when we get to it. If he's somewhere on the other side of the Portal and can bring me across, then he must have a way to make it appear again._ She'd have to trust him, as she always had.

Standing again, she tiptoed to the door and eased it open the tiniest crack. The soldier was still there on guard, but he'd slid down the wall to sit on the floor, his legs sprawled out across the passageway. His head was lolling to one side – and even as she watched, her own breath held, he gently snored. Sound asleep. He'd be in real trouble if he was caught, but that wasn't her problem, now, was it?

Feeling as if this were the first real stroke of luck she'd had in a very long time, she eased the door open, slipped out, and softly closed it again. Thinking hard back to the previous night to remember the way, she tiptoed down the halls and around corners until she found an outer door. Peeking through again, she was astonished to find it unguarded, and let herself out, finding herself in a small alley behind the complex. Stopping a moment to get her bearings, she began to make her way through the dark, silent streets of Suez towards the port. She'd decided to see if the tide was out before setting off on the alternate route around the north end of the bay.

She was only a few blocks away when a knee-high shadow loomed up before her, and a low, pitiful whimper reached her ears. Then she was almost knocked over by the rush of black fur and frantic – silent – greeting, from the last being she'd expected to meet.

"TOCK!" She sank down to her knees and hugged the dog tightly, as he twisted around to lick her face ecstatically. "Oh my god! How did you get here? How did you find me?"

He couldn't tell her, of course, but she didn't care. He was here. He looked exhausted – he must have loped through the night around the north end. But he was unhurt.

"And now we have to get back," she whispered. Standing up, she added, "come on," and started to step towards the port again.

Started to. Utterly unexpectedly, Tock actually had taken a mouthful of her loose caftan and stopped her from leaving, then began inching backwards, whining softly again. He relaxed when she took a step that way.

It didn't take repeated experiments for her to get it. "You want me to come with you?" Instantly deciding to trust the dog – how could she not, after this? – she turned to follow him the other way, instead. Tock immediately dropped her clothes and trotted tiredly to the corner, looking back to make sure she was there.

Thus they made their way north across Suez, keeping to the shadows and easily dodging the single patrol they saw. When they reached the edge of town, Tock led her to the ruined shell of a house. And there she got the third shock of the night. Sandy was standing in the shadows next to one wall.

Rose's jaw dropped as she stared back and forth between the two animals. Tock sat on the ground, panting, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. "We should have named you Rin-Tin-Tin!" she finally commented. His tail swept the ground as he gave her a big doggy grin, agreeing.

She greeted Sandy, who seemed happy to see her, too, and scratched the camel's head before walking slowly around and checking all the straps. Then she _cooshed_ her down so she could climb on board. She tried to get Tock to jump up, too, to give him a rest, but he would have none of it, so she gave up and raised the camel up again.

"Shall we try the crossing?" she asked him. He seemed to have no objections this time, so she turned Sandy's head towards the port again. Somehow even the moon seemed suddenly brighter, the night warmer. They took a short detour a few blocks around where she knew a guard post was, and came to the edge of the bay at last, just as the first rays of dawn were lighting the eastern sky.

The sand was wet – but you could see it through just a couple of calm, placid inches of water. Apparently the tide was running out, and almost gone.

"Is it safe to cross?" she asked the dog, who grinned silently back. She clucked at the camel, who had refused to enter the rising waters the evening before, and this time Sandy went down the bank without hesitation, Tock splashing at their heels. It was safe.

Sudden shouts from a hundred yards away told her she'd been seen at last, but she ignored them, urging Sandy faster. When a shot rang out a moment later, she kicked the camel into high gear, snorting at the mental image of her bouncing along on the back of a running camel. The bullet must have gone wide, and no more shots came, so they must have decided she wasn't worth chasing. A few heartbeats later and the trio were way out on the sands, away and free under the moon and the stars.

^..^

A short time after sunrise found them carefully picking their way towards Ayun Musa. Rose stopped when she thought she was close and "parked" the camel in a dry wadi, then crept closer on foot, Tock at her heels. She had no desire to ride boldly into the middle of the camp if the Arabs and/or the monks were still there – and the noise suddenly coming from ahead said they were.

But they were leaving! She peeked over the top of a convenient dune in time to see both groups mounted on their horses and camels, respectively, riding out of the oasis to west and south. She grimaced as she caught a glimpse of Brownie in the monks' caravan; apparently he'd been captured and repurposed. Then she sighed and shrugged. She was sure he'd be well treated by the holy men – better than he might have been with many other groups.

Then Rose steeled herself, turned her head and looked at the stretch of sand to the north of the oasis. Of course, it was empty – the others would not be calmly leaving if the pyramid had reappeared, she was certain of that. She sighed again, then shook her head. Trust. It will happen.

When only distant dust was visible, she stood again, fetched Sandy from her hiding place, and rode her slowly into the caravanserai once more. She unloaded the camel completely this time, placing the saddle and packs in a pitifully small pile in the corner. But she didn't hobble the camel. If she did make it out of here the way she expected to, she wanted Sandy to be able to take care of herself – at least until she was caught by another traveler. Hopefully she'd be as lucky in her future owners as Brownie.

As Jared had initially divided the food and other gear fairly evenly across the two camels, she found herself once more in possession of the cooking pot as well as the matches, so she lit another fire in the still-warm ashes the Arabs had left and cooked some of the rice and dried meat while she waited, feeding both herself and Tock.

Just as she was cleaning up, Tock suddenly began barking excitedly. She knew before she looked up what had happened, but her heart still caught in her throat at the sight.

The black pyramid was slowly swimming into view, mirage-like, on the white Sinai sands.

… _Rose …_

His mental voice sounded stronger now, closer. But also very, very tired.

 _*I'm here!*_ she thought back. _*At the spring!*_

… _Come to the Portal …_

"Tock!" she called the dog, and ran out of the oasis without a backward glance. The pyramid solidified as she approached, and she ran around to the north side. The entrance was there. This time Tock didn't hesitate, but sprang right up the steps alongside his mistress. Through the outer room and, hesitating only for a moment, into what Jared had named the freeze-frame chamber. Nothing seemed to happen; she moved freely, Tock didn't disappear, and the room was empty. So she walked towards the far wall, where the carved doorway framed black, lightless emptiness.

 _*I'm here!*_ She mentally called, then said it aloud. "Jared, I'm here!"

 _*Wait!_ * Suddenly his mental voice sounded plain as day. She almost wasn't sure whether it was mental or physical for a moment, then it came again. _*Don't step through yet!*_

She waited. He seemed to be fiddling with something, making last-minute adjustments. Then, _*OK, listen. I'm going to count down from three. When I say Go, you'll only have a split-second to make it through. Ready?*_

 _*Hang on!*_ she thought back, then called the dog over to her side. She grabbed his collar, but then leaned over and picked right him up. He was a bit too big for her to carry far or for long, especially if she had to duck down under the low frame, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to drag him through if the timing really was that close. _*OK, I've got Tock!*_

 _*Brilliant!*_ came Jared's reply, and she grinned. That was so like him. Then, _*OK! Three... Two... One... GO!*_

As the word reached her brain, she hunched over and stepped forward into the black. Last time there had been no transition at all, but this time... She was in the freezing, absolute dark long enough to feel her heart lurch against her ribs. Then her foot hit solid rock again, and she was through!

"ROSE!" She barely had time to register her name before he was there, his arms around her and the dog both, squeezing them so tightly that Tock yelped in protest. Jared relaxed his hug just enough for the dog to squirm out of her arms and leap down to the ground, then he scooped her up again, kissing her soundly, holding on for dear life – and now that her arms were free, she him as well.

"Oh, thank the stars," he murmured desperately. "I thought... " He didn't have to finish that sentence.

"Where have you _been_?" she demanded when she could think again. "I waited... I waited five and a half hours..."

Neither of them could muster a smile for that bit of nonsense. Jared raised his eyebrows at her. "I've been a little busy..." he told her, as if that explained everything.

She didn't hear him, steeped suddenly in her own shortcomings. "Jared, I failed!" she blurted out. "I tried, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't do anything! And now he's back on his way to Cairo, and the split wasn't made..."

His hands had moved to hold her head, tenderly smoothing back her hair on either side of her face. "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no, Rose, it's all right! You didn't fail! I mean... you did, but you were _supposed_ to fail. You weren't supposed to make the split there. The split's already been made! _This_ is Beta!"

Rose gaped at him. "The split's been made?" She spluttered. "W.. when? How?"

Jared looked unaccountably sheepish. "I think I did it. When I unlocked the freeze-frame chamber. 'Cause it let _them_ through."

Something about the way he had said the word stopped her cold. I'm not going to like this, she thought.

"Them...?" she repeated carefully. "Them... _who_?"

He paused, biting his lip, and looked downright apprehensive. Then he slowly tipped his head behind her and to one side. "Them."

Unwillingly, she inched her head around and peeked sideways at the corner of the floor behind her. There, piled in an ungainly heap, were what looked like metal body parts. And on top of the pile, dismembered, staring lifelessly – yet malevolently – up at her...

… was the head of a Cyberman.

* * *

 **The Other Side**

 _Previously..._

Jared felt Rose's hand get ripped out of his own as they seemed to hit a bump in their return jump, and whipped his head around to try to find her in the swirling madness, instinctively drawing a sharp breath to call her name – but he was tumbling sideways, completely out of control. The air was forced back out of his lungs as he was tossed back and forth like a marble in a god's hands, then abruptly...

 _WHAM_!

He was hurled onto a hard, flat surface. He managed to grunt out a groan before the world reasserted itself and gravity took hold of him again, and he slid several feet down off the now vertical surface and tumbled into a heap on the adjacent horizontal one, the sword hanging at his side pressing painfully into one leg as it bent around the metal.

Sand. Heat. Noise. Brightness. Oily smoke. His senses seemed to come back online slowly, reporting only the most pressing signals one by one to his central brain. A moment or two later that brain seemed to click back on, and he immediately made a lightning assay of his body. No broken bones, but he was going to have some bruises – and a headache – from that impact.

Finally opening his eyes, he squinted at his surroundings in the harsh sunlight as he unfolded his long limbs and cautiously arose. He'd slammed into the side of the black pyramid, again, and landed in the Sinai desert once more.

But when?

And what was that noise? And the smoke?

Machinery. On the far side of the pyramid, a vast construction set had apparently taken root and grown, churning out sound and smoke in equal measures into the previously pristine desert. Pulling himself upright again, Jared slunk to the corner and peeked around it, cautiously spying. It was several seconds before he focused in on the beings working jerkily on and around the structure, and his bones turned to brittle icicles.

Cybermen.

The place was crawling with them. Hundreds, thousands... Only some of them were fully converted and metal-skinned. Many still appeared human, but he could see various borglike attachments – and their jerky movements and utterly blank expressions gave them away.

He jerked back behind the corner of the pyramid, turned so his back was to it, and then his knees gave out, and he sank down to sit hard on the sand again. "Oh my god..." he whispered. "Where did they come from? When?"

And then it hit him. "Rose? _Rose?_ " He stared around wildly, but of course there was no sign of her. She hadn't "landed" with him. Had she been captured already?

When WAS he? Just then, the time jumper beeped on his wrist, having sampled the spacetime continuum and pinpointed itself. He whipped up his arm and opened it up, staring at the readout and calculating. He'd jumped – or been ripped – just over three weeks past the target date. "How – " he began, when suddenly the rest of the jumper's message managed to penetrate.

The backlight was glowing blue. He was in Beta.

" _Think_ , Jared! Think, think, THINK!" He leaned his head back on the black stone, trying to force his mental muscles to work. "They must have come through after I unlocked the freeze-frame chamber. But from where? Or when? – Never mind, it doesn't matter. They're here. Just figure out what they're doing and how to stop them." Because obviously, the Cybermen hadn't taken over the world in Beta's actual history. The time stream might have been split, but this wasn't his new world yet.

His and Rose's. "First thing is to find Rose." He raised his hands to rub his face, as the sensory memory of her hand being ripped from his left played again along his nerves. Just before that hand touched his face, he jerked it back and stared at his palm. "That's it!" Her DNA would still be on his palm, from the epithelial cells she'd left behind. He could use it to locate her – if he could get the right tools together! But how to collect them and keep them safe?

Miraculously, he still had one of the water skins slung over his shoulder. With the help of the sonic, trying to only use his fingertips of that left hand with its precious, miniscule cargo, he ripped a strip of cloth from his tunic, dampened it with the water, then sonicked it to get rid of any stray DNA. Finally, he carefully wiped his left palm with the end of the damp cloth, then rolled it up inside itself and tucked the package inside his trousers pocket.

Now he needed some components.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he pushed back up to his feet and peeked around the corner again to get his bearings. Glimpsing the converted slaves again, he closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself, then began scanning them quickly for a familiar figure. No matter if she'd been taken over, he'd know the curve of her cheek, the form of her body, the way she moved... Five long minutes ticked slowly by as his eyes frantically flicked from one to the next.

No Rose.

"OK," he finally breathed. He was sure he hadn't seen all of them, but she wasn't among the visible victims (those who hadn't been completely converted). He mentally winced away from the thought that she might be encased in metal already, not even allowing it to fully materialize in his consciousness. Time to move on.

He shifted mental gears to the structure, still trying to identify it, but gave up shortly after as not important. What was important was the small building a dozen feet to the right, closer to the pyramid itself. Heaps of scrap surrounded it, metal and cloth, but none of the slaves or Cybermen were now approaching it. Whatever it was, it wasn't in use at the moment, and might hold the components he needed to create his scanner.

How to reach it without attracting attention? In all previous interactions with Cybermen, they had always ignored him until they deemed him some sort of threat (unless having been prewarned about the Doctor and on the lookout for him), but he didn't want to take any chances. He needed as much time as he could get before tangling with the metal monsters.

So... time to pretend. Time to blend in. He straightened up, preparing to tromp stiffly over to the building in mimicry – and the sword Jack had given him thumped against his leg again. That wouldn't do. No Cyberman slaves were armed with so much as a toothpick. He unstrapped the belt, but just as he was about to bend over and bury it in the sand, he stopped. No. For no reason he could discern, something deep inside was telling him not to let go of it. Instead, he slipped it down the side of his leg inside his trousers, buckling the belt back up against his skin. It would force him to walk stiff-legged, but then, that would only add to the veritas of his acting.

Eyes straight ahead, locked on his target, he began tromping over the sand, heart in his throat. A tiny, dispassionate corner of his mind wondered at his reactions. Why was he so afraid now, after all the many times he'd tangled with Cybermen – and so many other deadly enemies – in his long past? He didn't bother articulating the answer: because this was the first real test of this new, half-human, half-Time Lord conglomeration. Was he still up to the task? Could he find a way to defeat them – that he could live with? Would it be the same sort of elegant, bloodless solution the Doctor had convinced himself he was enacting in his most recent battles, that he was so proud of? Or would he slip back into the mode he'd been born in – "full of blood and anger and revenge"?

And if he did, how would he react to that? How would Rose?

Who was he, this Jared Blue Wolfe?

Was he really ready to find out?

* * *

 **Bits and Pieces**

His nerves tingling and twanging, expecting every step to hear a metallic-voiced challenge, Jared forced himself to continue stomping stiff-legged over to the little building he'd picked out, staring straight ahead all the while. It wasn't until he'd reached the piles of cloth and metal surrounding it and started between them that he actually took a glance at them – and then it was all he could do to continue on. He staggered a step, then managed to jerkily get himself to the corner of the building and around it, out of sight, before his knees gave out, and he collapsed against the wall, unexpectedly retching.

They weren't just scrap.

They were body parts.

Hundreds of arms and legs and torsos, tossed in heaps all around. The building was instantly identified: the Cyberman transformation hub, where the brains and other vital parts of all their latest victims had been encased inside metal monsters, and the unused leftovers just tossed aside, so much scrap.

He found himself muttering his habitual apology over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He wasn't even sure who he was apologizing to. The victims? They didn't care. Not now.

With a superhuman effort, he dragged his mind back to his task: finding the parts needed to make his Rose detector. Considering again, he realized those parts were still likely to be found inside the hub. He'd just have to be extra cautious (not his usual M.O.) every second, making certain that he didn't inadvertently trip some circuit that turned the machinery on, with himself as the next victim.

Some forty excruciating minutes later, he had what he needed, and exited the abattoir with a huge sigh of relief. Squatting down again on the far side of the little building from the construction site with his booty, he did his best to keep the piles surrounding him on Ignore, while his sonic screwdriver got a thorough workout. Before another twenty minutes had passed, the detector was working, and he carefully fed in the target DNA samples from the cloth in his pocket, then began scanning the area for Rose.

It stubbornly refused to admit she was within range, and he didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. He scanned the area again and again, cranking the distance up and down repeatedly, until finally, he got the faintest blip, from the direction of the black pyramid!

Night had fallen unnoticed while he was at it, and although the work – whatever it was – continued on the construction site unabated, the lights adorning the growing structure didn't stretch all the way to his hiding place. He crept back to the pyramid again without arousing the faintest notice, and recommenced scanning.

Nothing on the outside. Glancing around again to make sure he was still alone, he mounted the stairs and once more entered the pyramid.

The first, outer chamber seemed untouched, except for evidence of traffic: scrapes and scratches and dirt along the floor, stretching between the inner doorway and the outside. Apparently a whole lot of something had been brought through – probably much of the material for the construction next door. Additionally, a thick black cable – possible for some sort of power supply – snaked across the floor as well, disappearing into the sand outside. The portal didn't seem to be in use at the moment, though. The detector beeped once for a faint trace, then fell silent again.

Creeping on through, he peered through the inner door, and stopped, gaping. THIS chamber was MUCH changed. Numerous lights were on – and the fact that he could see things plainly told him the freeze-frame mechanism was still inoperative, so he stepped on through the door to gape some more.

The walls, which he had never been able to scan, let alone open, had been ripped off in several places, revealing the mass of conduits and wires behind them. The power cable on the floor was attached to one side – and he noticed another trailing through the doorway beyond, as well. Jared stood for a few minutes staring around, trying to make sense of the technology, and came up with a few ideas, although no clues to the original builders leapt out at him. Then the detector in his hand beeped again – and again, excitedly. The traces of Rose's DNA were definitely stronger here.

But how could that be? The answer hit him at once. It was from their earlier visit. She'd never returned to this spot.

Then where could she be? Or when? Jared closed his eyes and concentrated, reliving the last jump. He felt the "bump" which had ripped them apart – that definitely happened at the same instant. Then he had been wrenched – no, propelled – to this point. No change in location, since there had been no space travel programmed into the jumper; but only time.

So what had happened? That bump... His eyes flew open as it hit him. He'd unlocked the freeze-frame chamber before they stepped back in time through the portal, which had apparently let the Cybermen through. They must have taken over and converted the local population – including Napoleon, in all likelihood. That had been what changed the flow of history, splitting the time stream and creating Beta around him. And the split must have been the bump!

So where was Rose?

Back in the other universe!

Jared groaned in agony, slumping against the nearby wall panel still in place. He was separated once again from her by the void, a solid wall between them. How to find her and get her back? He glanced at the time jumper on his wrist again, thinking hard. He could jump forward to their own time, go through their dimension cannon back to Alpha, jump back to find her, and then reverse the journey entirely to return here. Just thinking about all those steps, though, gave him the willies: far too many things to go wrong at each turn. (The tiny voice in his head which constantly monitored the differences between himself and the Doctor noted the unaccustomed caution and snickered; he squashed it ruthlessly.)

No, there had to be a shortcut. A shortcut! Eyes flaring wide, he stared around the chamber. Well, is this a dimensional portal or isn't it? Going between parallels is just another kind of step from going between times!

Pulling out the sonic screwdriver once more, he dove into the machinery, glorying in the frantic, manic, joyous, driven genius, one step this side of insanity. For the first time since leaving the TARDIS, he felt truly, completely, one-hundred-percent _awake_.

^..^

Some unknown time later, Jared stepped back, pulled his creaking back straight, and grinned. He'd done it! The portal doorway was now framed by a jerry-built contraption of tubes and wires and blinking lights, busily redirecting the wisps of void energy he'd discovered in the chamber walls through a half-remembered set of patterns, last seen back in his dim, distant memory, visiting one of the dimensional doorways his people had built, suffering through yet another boring technical lesson in the Academy. He hoped he'd gotten it right. No way to know but to try it!

He wasn't about to step through it himself, though. That would have put him back in Alpha, and he and Rose STILL wouldn't be where they needed to be. No, he had to find her and bring her here. It didn't take a genius to figure out how to do that, either; he had the memory of being on the sending side of that last holographic conversation, and how he'd gotten her there, too.

Ignoring the growing pangs of hunger now emerging from his midsection – he'd not eaten since before they'd left Suez! - he sat down on the floor between the be-decorated portal and the sword. He'd taken that off many hours before and propped it up against the wall, out of the way but close at hand. Stretching his long legs out before him, he settled back and closed his eyes, concentrating. He'd not tested his telepathic abilities once since waking up in this new body, shying away from the possibility of their loss; one more thing to add to the debit column along with his second heart, one more thing that said he was no longer a Time Lord. But now he needed to face it squarely.

He sat utterly still for several long minutes, finding each muscle and concentrating it into relaxation, then slipping into the old mental mantras for collecting and focusing his mind. For a long, heart-stopping moment, nothing stirred at the back of his mind, and he fought down despair. Then... long unused, rusty-feeling mental gears suddenly shifted, and he found the hidden psi source again. He wasted no time on jubilation or relief, but quickly harnessed the power, shaped it, and sent it out into the void.

 _*Rose... Rose... Hear me...*_

He couldn't have said later how long he sat there calling her. It might have been minutes, or days. But at long last, he felt something stir at an impossible distance in response. Making a last supreme effort, he reached further for it, and found it glowing with her colors, her mental scent, just as he'd sensed it before.

Finally, a word seemed to come, awkwardly, from her human brain. He could barely * _hear_ * it; although it seemed to have been screamed from the same impossibly long distance. * _Jared_!* It was Rose. A tear slipped down his face, unnoticed.

He took a moment to consider. This felt like real physical distance, and possibly time, as well as across the void. She must have left the area around the pyramid.

 _*Come back to the Portal,_ * he sent. The message had to be simple; there was no time nor psychic energy enough to explain. * _I'll bring you across.*_

Another long, wait, then he heard her scream again. _*I'm coming!*_

How could he ever express the joy those words gave him? Only one way. _*I love you!*_

Suddenly, completely exhausted, he broke the connection, and came back to himself, slumping over, gasping for breath. Something felt different inside the chamber, but he couldn't put his befogged mental finger on it. He pried his eyes open -

\- and froze, staring, at two huge metal feet, standing on the floor just beyond his Converses.

* * *

 **Cyberspeak**

"YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO BE IN THIS LOCATION" The flat, inflectionless metallic tone of the Cyberman crashed through Jared's ears. "YOU ARE NOT UPGRADED"

"I..." He began to answer, then just shut his mouth. What could he say? He stared up at the metal man towering over him, mentally frantically scrambling for a way out, registering out of the corner of his eye a large black cube sitting by the outer doorway – apparently brought for transport through the portal.

"YOU WILL STAND AND REPORT FOR UPGRADING"

 _Typical Cyberman. Never ask questions,_ flittered through his mind. He pulled his feet up closer and began pushing himself slowly up off the floor, walking his hands up the wall behind him.

Then, suddenly, another voice came bubbling up from his own memory. Rose's voice, whispering in the dark, extracting his promise to protect her from the Nazis in ReichWorld. _"And you'll fight them off if we're cornered? Instead of automatically surrendering, like y – like he always did?"_

As the accusation replayed, he realized: technically, his promise had been fulfilled when they made it back to Beta. But in reality, he'd never let it go. And it had cemented itself into his psyche, melded and tempered by the redheaded fire he'd inherited from Donna, as much a part of himself as it was the wild beast for which he was named.

No, he thought, his mind crystalizing. _Jared Blue Wolfe does not surrender to evil. Ever. Not even momentarily._

The edge of his left hand brushed the hilt of Jack's gift, the ruby-hilted offworld sword, leaning against the wall beside him, and the sensation threw him into overdrive. Without conscious planning, he crumpled a bit, theatrically, stamping his right foot slightly to distract the metal man, then in the same motion he scooped up the sword with both hands, whipped it out of the scabbard, and attacked. The magnificent blade flashed in the dim, flickering lights, and seemed to move in his hands of its own accord, pulling him along as it slashed a lightning-fast figure eight in the air. Jared's jaw dropped open wide as he watched the durantium blade, the hardest known substance in the universe, twirl its lethal dance ...

… and it sliced through the Cyberman as if his steel shell were made of tinfoil.

Before Jared could draw breath, his opponent was clattering to the floor in pieces, the head bouncing with a resounding clang and skittering across the black marble. He stood gaping at the sight, his eyes huge, the sword still poised above his head. Slowly, slowly, he lowered it and stared at the deadly silver weapon. Finally managing to close his mouth, he swallowed hard, then said in a tiny voice, "Thanks, Jack."

He leaned over and picked up the scabbard, slipping the sword home again, then buckled it around his waist once more, not wanting to be parted from its protection. Then he made himself pick up the pieces of the Cyberman and pile them in a corner, placing the head on top with a final shudder.

At last he turned back to the job at hand. While working on the portal enhancement, he thought he'd located the projection circuits which made the pyramid appear and disappear in the desert. He ran a cable to connect it to the enhancement, which he hoped would reinforce it back in Alpha. He'd just finished it and flicked it on when Rose's voice came through to his mind again, telling him of her arrival at the oasis, and he was able to test the projection circuit by making it appear for her.

Once she was inside the mirror chamber, he used their stronger psi connection to lock the portal's transport circuits onto itself there. A few nerve-wracking moments more, fine-tuning the settings and feeding as much power as he dared, then a split-second coordinated move, and at last she was back in his arms once more.

^..^

"Cybermen!" Rose squeaked, then nervously called Tock away from the crumpled heap. "Where did they come from?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I haven't had time to think about it. They might be from the group we sent into the Void, or they could be from somewhere – somewhen – else. That wasn't the only time they'd been invented.

"The important thing, though," he went on, "is figuring out what they're doing now. And stopping it." With that, he turned back to the black cube his erstwhile acoster had brought in, seeing now that it was perched on an anti-gravity sled (which said a little about their origins; they probably weren't Lumic's bunch but from much further ahead in time – but he didn't bother sharing that observation with Rose). On closer examination, the cube, about a meter on each side, resolved into neatly stacked bricks of some heavy black substance, each block small enough to sit on his hand.

"This is probably what they're after," he commented. "I think that one was bring it here to transport it to wherever – whenever – they came from. But what is it?" He picked up one of the bricks – and almost couldn't. It was _heavy_! "Whoa!" he cried. "Bloody thing weighs a ton!"

"Is it gold?" Rose queried, looking closely at the stack. "Black gold?"

"No, it's even heavier than that. Much heavier." Using both hands, Jared managed to bring the bar closer to his face for examination, sniffing at it, as well. "It's... Nyet, eto ne mozhet byt!"

"What?" She cried, ignoring the unfamiliar language.

He put it back down on top of the stack, then pulled his sonic out again (it had really been getting a thorough workout today!) and buzzed it several times, his expression becoming more astounded with each pass. Finally, he stood up straight again, looking at Rose. "It's oil."

"What, you mean crude oil? Like, what, solidified somehow?"

"Solidified... concentrated... miniaturized. More than that, it's _hyper-miniaturized!_ " He pointed to the single brick. "That one brick contains about a thousand barrels of oil! This stack... could be holding half an oil field!"

"How?"

"They've actually collapsed the molecular structure. You know how atoms are structured, with electrons buzzing around the nucleus at a distance? A great distance? And how anything that seems solid to us is actually mostly empty space because of it?" She nodded, increasingly trepidatious. "Well, somehow they've collapsed the distance between nucleus and electron cloud down to a fraction of what it's supposed to be. So they can pack in hundreds of atoms in the space of one!"

"Wouldn't that be defying laws of physics? And wouldn't that make it... dangerous?" Rose edged away from the sled as if it were about to explode.

Jared shook his head. "They've stabilized it somehow. I don't know how explosive it is – I've never seen this technology before." Now he suddenly wanted another look at what they were building outside – apparently an oil rig. Taking Rose's hand, he led her cautiously out of the pyramid, and, following the cable leading out of the Portal room, slipped over to hide behind an unguarded jumble of crates and machinery at the corner nearer the building site, Tock quietly slinking along at their heels.

"Jared?" Rose's voice was breathless. He glanced at her white face, then followed her trembling, pointing hand. To the north of the oil rig, between it and the transformation hub, the hundreds of unconverted slaves were now sitting in rows, perfectly still, staring straight ahead.

"Cyber slaves," he said quietly, then reminded her how the people in Pete's World had been controlled through their ear buds before they were upgraded. "Apparently the oil rig is finished, and they're in standby." Now that they were unmoving, their clothing caught his eye: about half of them were wearing French uniforms, the other half in Arab clothing. "They must have come from Suez."

"So Napoleon is probably among them?" Rose was trying to deal with the shock.

Jared nodded. "If he wasn't already upgraded completely." He turned back to the rig, trying to make sense of it, marking the positions of the Cybermen manning it – there were only about a dozen fully-converted metal men that he could see – and identifying what he could for Rose. "The main processing point is just there, with the controls next to it." Another sled was being slowly loaded with bricks. "We've got to get in there and shut it down."

"Are the words 'distract the guards' heading in my direction?" came Rose's impish question.

It took him a second before he caught it, then grinned at her. "I don't think even the magnificent Captain Jack Harkness could distract these guys successfully." Turning back, he started searching for something – anything – they could use to their advantage.

Rose suddenly went rigid beside him, grabbing his arm wordlessly. He whipped around and froze. "Oh my god," he whispered.

The hundreds of cyber slaves were stiffly standing, turning en masse, and shuffling blindly forward. Not towards them, but towards the little building to the north, standing all alone.

"What are they doing? Where are they going?" Rose asked in a strangled voice.

"That's the transformation hub," he told her through icy lips. "They're going to be upgraded."

* * *

 **Destruction**

"What are they doing? What's going on?" If a whisper can be a scream, Rose was managing it.

"That's the transformation hub. They're being upgraded!" Jared's voice, in contrast, was flat and hard – and very, very dangerous.

"No..." Her denial was automatic.

" _Hell_ , no!" was his agreement, hissed out between gritted teeth. "Not this time!"

"How are they being controlled?" Rose was frantically trying to keep it together, searching her memory for how they'd done it last time. "We've got to disable it!"

Jared had already whirled about, searching the grounds. "Controller, controller... it would have been the first thing they set up..." Suddenly he stopped, blowing out a disgusted snort and rolling his eyes.

"What?"

"We're hiding behind it," he informed her, pointing to the machinery they were crouched by.

"Oh. Well, then. That makes it easy. How do we turn it off, then?" Just then, a scream rent the air. The processing had begun, and it knocked the imp right out of her. "Jared, hurry!"

"With this," he answered her previous question. "Stand back!"

Rose watched in fascination as her intended stood up, whipped out the sword hanging by his side as if he'd done it a thousand times, raised it over his head, and brought it flashing down on the cable running from the pyramid. The cable parted like cooked spaghetti, sparking and spitting, and the machine went dead.

And all hell broke loose across the way. The freed slaves stopped their lockstep shuffling, gaped around wide-eyed, and started screaming, shouting, and ripping off earpieces. A mad scramble ensued, as the edges broke apart and men started streaming into the desert. The half-dozen Cybermen who had been directing the slaves tried a few more orders, then went into automatic Delete mode, firing their built-in hand lasers indiscriminately into the crowd.

Now the oil rig structure began emptying of silver Cybermen, as they stomped out to join the riot patrol. "And there's our distraction!" Jared grinned, and grabbed Rose's hand. "Come on!" And they ran across the open space towards the back end of the rig, ducking low, Tock as ever at their heels.

Then, in the midst of the chaos, one man stood alone, angrily drawing his short, pudgy form as regally tall as he could, and began bellowing above the cacophony.

"Francais! Soldats! Arrêter! Á moi! _Á moi!_ "

Most of those in French uniforms stopped, looked around, and began gathering around the man, joined by some of the people in desert garb. It looked like a battle was about to be joined, as their leader launched them barehanded towards the Cybermen.

"Is that Napoleon?" Jared paused at the corner of the rig and grinned. "I knew he'd pop up."

"No," Rose replied, bewildered, squinting. "It's General Bon!" She'd recognized the long, curly brown hair, unlike the famous General, whose gaze she would never forget. "I don't see Napoleon anywhere."

"Ah, well," Jared shrugged, already turning back to the task at hand. He led her in through the open-weave pylons and cables supporting what was to Rose an incomprehensible jumble of machinery. Reaching the control area, Jared whispered quickly, identifying the parts of the process. The remains of an industrial laser which had apparently been used to "drill" the original well was angled at a surprisingly shallow angle generally eastwards, "towards the Saudi oil fields," he commented. "There's really not much oil under this part of Egypt. They're stealing it from quite a distance!" The stolen oil, drawn somehow through countless miles of Earth's crust, was being fed into a hopper, then funneled down onto a small stage, where a constant bombardment of sparkling blue-green energy beams from several angles was continuously hyper-miniaturizing the sludge, slowly building another brick for the pile awaiting on the nearby anti-gravity sled.

"How did they build all this in just two days?" Rose asked, bewildered.

Jared gave her a double-take. "No, it's been three weeks since the split – on this side. The portal circuits in the pyramid locked onto you standing in the chamber in the parallel regardless of the time difference." He put aside any deeper explanations for later, though, and began searching for a way to shut the operation down a bit less than catastrophically. "Now, where's the off switch?"

Tock's growl saved them again, giving them that crucial second's warning. "DELETE" came from one side at the same time the returning single Cyberman started firing at them, but they had already ducked. The laser bolts hit the oil transport machinery instead, causing ominous metallic shrieks and rattlings to fill the air.

"Rose! Keep looking!" Jared yelled at her, as he scrambled towards their attacker, sword once more in hand, keeping his head down. Incredibly, the Cyberman continued to fire at Jared, causing more and more damage as his target kept barely ahead of the shots. Tock, barking angrily, dodged the other way, distracting the metal man for only a moment before he turned back to Jared again.

Swallowing her fear, Rose turned and frantically scanned for controls – then ducked again, as another Cyberman appeared on the far side of the miniaturization platform and started shooting at _her_! She dove sideways past the beam mounts to her left, rolling on the floor before coming to hands and knees again, one eye on her assailant and the other one still looking for an "off" switch. Both of the metal men kept shooting, chanting "DELETE DELETE" in unison, as if their own "off" switches had jammed, their laser bolts pinging wildly around the machinery, continuing to damage their operation. _Pretty soon, they'll do the job for us, if we can keep this up_ , Rose thought grimly.

Jared launched himself through a gap, turned a Rambo-like somersault and came up swinging the sword, aiming it at the Cyberman's forearm above the deadly laser hand. Just as it had before, the magnificent blade sliced through the Cyberman's shell with barely a quiver, shutting the gun off as it dropped to the floor. Jared took a quick, relieved breath, even as he continued the figure-8 as before, raising the sword high to effect another beheading.

It never landed. A sparkling blue-green energy beam beat him to the Cyberman's head, slashing across it and leaving nothing in its wake. Jared blinked and stared, then whirled around and ducked, taking in the situation in a blazing instant. One of the hundreds of shots had knocked a miniaturizing beam cannon – no, two of them! – off target, and they were both spinning wildly, spraying their beams in all directions. Jared heard an ominous screech from a nearby pillar as a center section was miniaturized right out of it, and knew instantly that the entire structure was about to come crashing down around them.

 _"ROSE! RUN!"_ The words left his mouth in a scream even as his wild eyes found hers, and they both began an insane scramble for the edge of the pylon forest, not even trying the impossible task of avoiding the spinning beams. Somehow, they both made it, just before a tremendous metallic groan and crash announced the promised collapse of the superstructure. Rose was screaming for Tock, wilting in relief as the familiar black figure slipped out behind them – before Jared pulled her up again. "Keep running!"

Chaos reigned all around, full of bodies both moving and still, screams and cries and smoke and terror. The former slaves had apparently managed to overwhelm and render inoperative several of their erstwhile masters, while the remaining Cybermen abruptly broke off their attack at the collapse of the processing plant, turning stiffly and marching towards it futilely. An insane impulse to try to stop them from entering it and self-destructing flittered across Jared's mind, but he swatted it away and just kept running, pulling Rose along behind him. Instead, he filled his lungs with air and bellowed the command to leg it, first in French, then in Arabic. The slaves, needing no further encouragement, turned as one and took off into the desert – those who could still move. There were far too many bodies lying lifelessly on the ground, and both time travelers knew the sight would be burned into their memories.

A hundred yards further on, Jared and Rose could go no further, and they collapsed onto the sand, Tock flopping down beside them, then they rolled over to look back just as a mighty, roaring screech filled the air. A gigantic sand devil had grown out of nowhere, building and swirling above the spot where the futuristic oil refinery had stood, obscuring I-beams and bodies alike. It towered above them, clawing at the sky, then, as if a gigantic switch had been thrown, it abruptly fizzled into nothing, sand and dust simply falling lightly as snow all around them.

And when it finally cleared, there was nothing left. Only the black pyramid remained, canted precariously on the edge of a newly-formed pit a few dozen yards wide and deep. The surviving slaves had all disappeared into the distance, leaving only Jared and Rose, and Tock, staring across the tortured landscape, panting heavily into the deafening silence.

* * *

 **Aftermath**

Gulping in the sudden silence, Rose turned to Jared. "OK... what just happened?"

Climbing gingerly to his feet, then reaching a long arm to help her up beside him, Jared flicked on his sonic – not that he really needed to, this time. "Apparently... it's all been hyper-miniaturized. The whole thing. Including the Cybermen."

"Are they still alive?" she asked, her voice full of trepidation.

He glanced at her once, then shook his head matter-of-factly. "No. Nothing could survive that." Suddenly he shushed her, cocking his head and listening intently. His eyes, flying open wide, sought hers for a moment, then he gulped, flicked a new setting on the sonic, and buzzed it again, straight down past their feet. The look stealing across his face afterwards was priceless.

"What?" Rose would have snorted if she hadn't been seriously alarmed.

"Um... Well... you know how up ahead, in our time, there isn't much oil around? That's why we rely on zeppelins, and mass transit? And the Middle East never developed into an oil superpower in Beta?"

"Yeah..."

"Well...," he took another deep breath, then the words came tumbling out in a rush. "That's because it's all been hyper-miniaturized, too."

Rose stared at him, as guilt spread across his face in the visible flush. "The accident," he stressed the word, "must have set off a positive feedback loop that worked back through the pipeline to the Middle East oil fields," he said defensively, trying to radiate innocence.

She interrupted him with the previously-delayed snort, then burst out laughing hysterically. A beat or two later, he joined her, till they had to hold on to each other to keep upright. Tock sat and lolled his tongue at them, grinning his uncomprehending doggy grin, just happy that his humans were happy.

Finally, Jared pulled himself together. "Come on," he said, taking her hand again in their habitual clasp. "We still have to shut that thing down and make it go away," he explained, pointing to the precariously-canted black pyramid.

"Hang on a tick," she replied, digging in her heels and holding him back. "I want to show you something."

"What?" he asked curiously as he stepped back again beside her.

She gestured towards the pit. "Look at that." Turning to face him squarely, she said earnestly, " _You_ did that."

He didn't get her meaning. "Yeah, I know – " he began guiltily, but she cut him off.

"No, you don't understand. Jared..." she faltered, then went on. "You saved the planet. Again. No Cybermen messing up Beta's history, enslaving the world." She let that sink in for a moment, then waved her hand, brushing his denials away before they even formed on his lips. "It doesn't matter that you only have one heart. It doesn't matter that you can't regenerate. Or that you don't have a TARDIS.

"You're still a bloody genius.

"And you're still a Time Lord."

He stared at her, mesmerized by the gift she was offering him, that of her belief in him. After months of frustration, of feeling diminished, _less than_ , here was proof that maybe... he wasn't _less than_ after all.

After several single heartbeats, he tore his eyes from hers again, turning and gazing at the pit, and she turned, too, mirroring him. "Ei bine, eu presupun..." He stopped cold, a puzzled look crossing his face as the words penetrated his own ears. Rose bit her lips and looked down to hide a smirk.

"That was Romanian," he finally said, almost accusingly.

"Oh, is that what it was," she replied sunnily, radiating nonchalance.

He looked sideways at her. "I've been doing that a lot, haven't I?"

She nodded. "Yup," she confirmed.

He took a deep breath. "Rose," he began. "I have a confession to make."

 _Uh-oh_. Rose kept her eyes on the horizon.

"Back in Suez, before all this happened..." He took another quick breath and then blurted it out. "The TARDIS was there. – I didn't see her," he added quickly. "Or... him. But I felt her. She contacted me. And I told her to take him away, that we didn't need any help. And she did. But before she left, she... gave me back the common Earth languages."

Rose waited, biting her lips, but that seemed to be all. "I know," she said, not looking at him, even as he turned to stare. She took her own deep breath. "I _did_ see her. And him. And I told them to get lost, too. And..." She dared to take a quick peek at him under her eyebrows. "I really did slap him," she admitted sheepishly. Once again, she buried the knowledge of her request to the TARDIS on his behalf deep inside, vowing to never tell him, since the ship apparently hadn't.

Jared was still staring – but his mouth was twitching at the corners. "Do you have any idea how much I would have given to see that?" he finally asked, laughter just a breath away.

"Sorry. No time to send out invites," she grinned, and he giggled, the most precious sound in her universe. One of them, anyway.

Again, he started forward, but again, she held him back. "I choose you," she said simply.

Tears stinging, he wordlessly gathered her in his arms and held her tight.

^..^

Half an hour later, Jared put the finishing touches on his handiwork. He'd laid the bricks of hyper-oil around the edges of the portal chamber, dismantled what he could of the portal's circuits, and set a countdown timer on his rigged trigger device.

"Sixty seconds," he announced as he stood, uncurling his long limbs, and turned to take her hand and dash outside and away from the impending explosion.

And froze. A Cyberman stood in the outer doorway, dented and scuffed, as if he'd crawled out of hell. Tock dropped into a crouch in the corner, growling menacingly, low in his throat.

"YOU WILL RESTORE ME." The Cyberman spoke English, but with a decidedly French accent showing through the flat, inflectionless tone coming from his speaker grille. "I COMMAND IT." He clomped a step towards them, facing Jared.

"I can't," Jared replied simply, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

"YOU MUST."

"I _can't_. _No_ _one_ can. In all of time and space, all throughout the future, no one has EVER figured out how to extract a brain from a cyborg and return it to living flesh. Besides, your body is _gone_." Panic was warring with sorrow in Jared's voice and heart. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But it cannot be done. It's impossible."

Without warning, the Cyberman lunged sideways, more quickly and adeptly than either human would have believed. Before they could draw breath, one metal arm was around Rose's neck, and he staggered on a few steps, dragging her towards the Portal opening.

"YOU MUST RESTORE ME. THIS IS NOT MY FATE. I AM DESTINED TO BE THE LEADER OF FRANCE, OF THE WORLD. YOU WILL RESTORE ME."

With those words, the identity of the victim inside the metal casing seared across Jared's brain. _"Napoleon!"_ he gasped. Rose's gasp echoed his, her eyes locked on his face.

"Napoleon, let me go!" she squeaked.

"EVEN YOU KNOW WHO I AM. YOU KNOW I AM DESTINED FOR GREATNESS. YOU WILL RESTORE ME." He didn't seem to hear their protests, locked into a downward spiral of madness caused by the realization of what had been done to him. Two more sideways steps, turning to keep facing Jared, and they were in front of the Portal.

"Napoleon!" Jared cried. "Stop! Please, stop! All right! I'll help you! Just let her go!"

"YOU WILL RESTORE ME?"

"Yes!" _I'll deal with lying later. Or maybe somewhere in Beta's future there is an answer._

Napoleon paused, as if trying to detect Jared's truthfulness with whatever passed for Cyberman detection devices. Jared and Rose held their breath.

Finally, finally, Napoleon's arm dropped a scant few inches, and Rose scrambled out of his grasp and stumbled back into Jared's arms.

And the wolf cub struck.

Out of the corner, silent and deadly, Tock launched himself at the monstrosity that had dared to threaten his beloved human mistress. His teeth had no power against the metal arm, but his jaw locked around it anyway, and his weight knocked Napoleon backwards.

Through the Portal.

Metal man and dog disappeared into the Void.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Rose screamed, and tried to run after them, but Jared grabbed her around the waist and jerked her back. Realization of the countdown screamed through his temporary distraction, and he knew they had but seconds left – not enough time to disable it. Tock was gone, irretrievably. He pulled Rose around and launched himself and her towards the outer door, tumbling down the steps and on, across the sand. Rose moved her feet in autopilot, stunned, functioning only physically, in response to years of conditioning into running headlong alongside his familiar frame, her hand locked once more in his.

A few scant yards away, the blast from the explosion sent them flying through the air, and they landed, still clutching each other's hand, a hundred feet further on. Even as the roar ripped through the air around them, it was overtaken and swallowed up by a gigantic _SCHLOOP_ –

– and just as suddenly, complete and utter silence reigned once more.

Spluttering, spitting out sand, they sat up and turned around. Jared knew what he'd see even before he managed to squint through the blaze of the setting sun. The pit was still there, gaping at their feet.

But the pyramid was gone, as if it had never been.

* * *

 **The Most Loyal Companion**

"No..." Rose sobbed. "No... _Tock_..."

Tears streamed down Jared's face, too, as he held his beloved close in his arms, grieving with her for their canine companion. The scene just past replayed in his mind again and again, but each time, he realized there had been nothing he could have done. Their best and most loyal friend had died as he had lived, ever since they'd rescued him from the abandoned mine shaft in ReichWorld, giving his life to protect his humans.

And perhaps he wasn't dead, but alive and well somewhere else, in whatever time and place the Portal had been set to. As long as he managed to escape the Cybermen, that is.

And that's when it hit him.

"Come on!" he cried, startling Rose into silent compliance as he scrambled to his feet, hauling her up beside him. She had no time to question him, as he grabbed her hand with his left – the one wearing the time jumper – madly punched in spatial coordinates dragged instantly up from memory, and punched Activate.

A squished moment later, they stumbled into the sunset back in Suez. Jared stared wildly around to get his bearings, then took off at a dead run. Rose just held on and came along, still just trying to unscramble her head.

A block away, he screeched to a halt and ducked inside a familiar-looking building. It wasn't until she followed him inside, and through another door, that she recognized it. The metallic statue the locals called "aled'eb sey'eh", Bad Wolf, bared its teeth at them again from his crouch on the dirt floor, ripping her heart out all over again with its incredible resemblance to their missing pooch.

"Jared..." she began, brokenly, but stopped at the look on his face.

"Please," he whispered to the air. "Please. Give me a day like today. Just give me this."

Then he brought out the sonic, clicked in a setting, and pointed it at the statue.

Nothing happened.

His thumb found the tiny flywheel, and he slowly pulsed up the intensity of the beam. Again. And again. The sonic wavelengths sliced through their ears audibly, screeching higher and higher, louder and louder...

… until suddenly, a tinkling explosion crashed through the room, and the statue burst into a gazillion tiny shards of metal, exploding outwards like a miniature dust storm. And Tock stood up, gave himself a mighty shake, and bounded over to Rose, licking her astonished face as she collapsed to her knees beside him.

Tears of joy, this time, streamed again down her face, as she hugged her beloved pet, then ran her hands all over him as he danced around her, as overjoyed to see her as she was to see him. Then, stunned, she simply looked at Jared and shook her head in wonder.

He knelt down before her and reached to brush away her tears with his fingers. "There," he croaked out. "This is my wedding present to you."

Half sobbing, half laughing, she flung her arms around him and held on tight, as Tock frisked and pranced around them in the dingy, dusty room.

At last, they drew back, and went through the ritual of petting Tock, praising him to the dog gods, and brushing the dust off his coat – and their clothes. Jared stood and pulled Rose to her feet once more.

"And speaking of weddings...," he began, grinning. "I think there's one waiting for us. Shall we?"

Rose laughed, full and free and happy, then threaded her arm through his and nodded up at him.

"Let's go home."


	9. Act 3 Adjustments

**Act Three – Dancing Towards Destiny**

 **Adjustments**

 **Tudor Rose**

Belle and John stumbled out of the jumper vortex together, running smack into the side of a parked, empty sedan. Belle pushed off the car with her free hand, looking wildly around the so-familiar street, her grin stretching more and more until like to split her face. "We made it! Oh my god! _We made it!"_ They were just across and down the street from the corner she'd been snatched from – in fact, she could see the goon who'd grabbed her lurking beside the building there, waiting.

She turned to her companion, who was _not_ delighted, but standing stock still, not breathing, only his eyes darting about in a pale, shocked face. "John? John!"

"What hell is this?" he asked hoarsely, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"Not hell. Just London." She still had his hand gripped tightly in hers, and she put her other palm reassuringly on his shoulder. "John. John!" He still didn't look at her, so she moved that hand to his cheek, instead, forcing his head to turn, and at last his eyes focused on hers, and she went on. "We're not dead. We traveled. I know this is going to sound _impossible_... and _insane_... But we're still in London. We traveled through _time_. We've come into the future – the distant future. John... this is the year twenty-twelve. Two thousand and twelve. We've skipped five hundred years."

Her explanation wasn't helping; he was obviously becoming more confused, not less. "How do you know?" he demanded.

She hesitated. "Because this is where – when – I'm from. I didn't come from another country, I came from another time. This time. And no, I never lost my memory. I always knew." She'd been keeping watch out of the corner of her eye, and now saw the goon straighten up. "Shush – look! Look over there! Just watch!" and she pointed towards the goon. John followed her finger just in time to see a familiar blonde head come around the corner and run smack into the goon, who grabbed her arm. They seemed to exchange a couple of words, and then disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.

If possible, John's jaw dropped even further, his eyes goggling. Belle pulled his face around again to hers. "That was me, getting kidnapped, that started this whole thing rolling. That's what just happened to us, you and me, back in the Tower court. We just disappeared in front of Henry and the guards in a flash of light, just like that."

John was shaking his head, unable to comprehend at all.

Belle glanced behind him and saw they were next to a sidewalk cafe, closed for the afternoon lull. She gently pushed him over and down onto a chair, then took the other seat across the table from him. Leaning over, she reached for his chilled hands and held them in both of hers. "John..."

He'd been looking around again, staring at the – to him – completely unfamiliar sights of cars both parked and scooting past, tall apartment buildings, pavement and sidewalk, strange shops crowded next to each other, and strangely dressed people walking past. He interrupted whatever she had been about to say, talking almost more to himself than her. "Carriages that move without horses... Buildings that reach to the sky..." She smiled, recognizing details of the "silly stories" she used to tell him. He turned back to her, questioning now, "... and instant communications across vast distances?" She nodded encouragingly.

"... And... people like me?"

She raised her eyebrows, then tilted her head, looking past him at something that had caught her eye a moment before, then nodded that way, and he twisted around to look. Just down the block was a gay couple standing and looking through a shop window, their arms around each other – and as they watched, the men shared an affectionate kiss. Belle gave John a second to absorb it, then said, "Look at everybody else. They don't care." It was true – nobody else on the mildly-busy street was giving the couple a second glance.

John slowly twisted back to face her again, struggling to absorb it. She gave him time. "Five hundred years..." he muttered. A thought struck him, and he looked at her with lost eyes. "Are we still married?"

She spluttered a moment at the utterly unexpected question, not sure of the answer herself. "Legally? Officially? …. Probably not." And then her heart provided the real answer. "But as far as I'm concerned, you're still my husband."

He blew out a huge breath, relieved of one thing, then looked at her again, bewildered, "But what... why..."

"Why was I back in your time?" He nodded. She took a deep breath, and blew it out in a helpless sigh. "There was something I had to do." She shook her head. "But it's a very, very, VERY long story – and I promise you I _will_ tell you all of it... but not right now. It's too complicated." She paused. "John, listen. I'd like to strike a bargain with you. This world... has changed, _completely_ , from the world you knew. And I know that you're going to have a very difficult time adjusting to it, that every little thing is going to be utterly strange and maybe scary." A rueful purse of her lips. "And I have remember not to treat you like a child because of it. If I forget, remind me, OK? But listen... Give it a try... for just six months. I lived in your time for eighteen months. All I'm asking you for is six. And at the end of that time, if you really can't hack it – I mean, you just can't make the adjustments, and just _hate_ living here, then we'll leave." Dropping one hand for a moment, she raised her wrist with the time jumper on it. "This device – what brought us here – still works. It can take us to any time, any place. If after six months, you don't want to stay, then together we'll pick out a time and a place where you would be more comfortable." She saw the idea she was expecting flicker across his face, and gently squashed it. "You can't go back home again, to fifteen-twelve. They'll chop off your head as soon as you're recognized. Viscount Pendleton is effectively dead, and England, in Henry's time, is out. But maybe France... or the New World, after it's settled... Anywhere."

"And... you'd go with me?"

She hesitated, the knowledge that the "real" Belle was going to be another huge adjustment for him, one she wasn't at all sure he'd be able to make. "If you still want me to."

"Of course I will. You're still my wife. In spite of...," he gestured behind him towards the gay couple with a quick jerk of his head, "I keep my vows, Madame."

Unexpected, grateful tears prickled her eyes. Having HIM around was going to be a huge adjustment for HER, too. She sniffed, and then managed another smile. "Then I'll make another bargain with you, too. If we both still feel the same way in six months, then we'll take those vows again, and make it official, for this time – and all time."

He looked deeply into her eyes, and then nodded. "All right, then, Belle. You have a bargain – two bargains."

 _Ouch_. Suddenly, she hated hearing her professional name from his lips. She hadn't even thought much about it for months, but back here in her old surroundings, she was forcibly reminded of her double life. She took another huge breath. "I'd... like it if you dropped the Belle completely. Just Hannah. OK? It really is my real name."

"OK. Hannah, then. But you'll explain that, too? Later?" She bit her lip, and nodded.

He seemed to have recovered a bit, so she suggested they go "home". "My place is just a few blocks from here. It's tiny – well, really, it's about the same size as our quarters in most of the castles we stayed at with the court. But it's comfortable."

They weren't exactly inconspicuous on the walk, but it was likely as much for their very odd (and dirty) attire as for his constantly stopping to gape in the shop windows, and she ignored the stares and murmured comments. They ran across a casual clothing store having a sidewalk jumble sale, and it suddenly dawned on her while two closets full were awaiting her, he had nothing else to wear. Guessing his size, she grabbed a couple of pairs of jeans and a handful of plain Tshirts (skipping the idea of underwear for the time being; "commando" would work till later), then reached automatically for her pocket – and burst out laughing. Yup, the small bundle of twenties – what was left from her last client's payment – _and_ her ID were still there. She'd never even thought to check till that moment.

Thinking of it then, she asked John how good he was at remembering numbers, smiling at his shrug, then gave him a string of four digits and told him to repeat it, over and over. By the time they reached her apartment block, he'd said it perfectly dozens of times.

Then she stopped dead in the lobby, remembering what was on display in her place. "Uh... I wasn't exactly expecting company, and... I _really_ need to clean it up a bit. Please. There's things in there that you... _really_... don't want to see. Can you just wait right here for just five minutes? I promise that's all it'll take."

John grinned and leaned against the wall, watching out the glass front door. Hannah ran up the flight of stairs and let herself into the flat and looked around. _OK, not too bad. But I have GOT to hide those toys!_ She didn't have a box, but she did have a suitcase, and she dragged it out of the back of her closet and flung it open, then scooped up all the sex toys – her professional gadgets – out of the glass cabinet and the nightstand, and dumped them in. She then grabbed her sexiest underwear and tossed it on top, closed the case, and pushed it back where it had come from. She'd take it out and dump it somewhere another time. She stared for a moment at "Belle's" clothes hanging in the closet, and shook her head. There wasn't anything there that would be any worse to John's unaccustomed eyes than on "Hannah's" side. Thank goodness she was a clean freak (had to be, really, with clients coming to her place) – there weren't even any dirty clothes to pick up.

She went back down to the lobby and tore John away from the view, and asked him one more time what the numbers were. At his now-bored, perfect recitation, she grinned, and pointed to the keypad next to her door without a word. He caught on immediately, and tentatively pushed the little knobs underneath each number in sequence, astounded when the door cracked open by itself. When he turned his delighted smile on her, she grinned back. "No keys to lose. Just _don't forget_ that number!"

She waved him through the door first, letting him stare around with wide eyes for a moment before she flicked the overhead light switch and watched him jump, giggling. Showing him the switch, she let him flick it a few times, then gave him the simplest explanation she could come up with on the walk home: "It's called electricity. Basically, we've harnessed lightning. Don't worry," she laughed when he jumped, as she knew he would. "It's perfectly safe, as long as you don't stick a finger or a fork in a socket." She showed him what one of those looked like, and he promised to keep all digits and implements far away.

A tour of the kitchen seemed to be in order next. He seemed to be getting used to the succession of shocks, watching her demonstrate and explain the stove, oven, and refrigerator (she skipped the microwave for now) with wide-eyed delight. He caught on to other things, too, that she wasn't saying directly. "You use these things yourself, don't you? You can cook?"

She laughed. "Well... basic things. I'm not real great, but I don't starve."

"And... can you teach me?"

"Sure. And you can learn as much as you want, whatever you want. John... that's one thing I haven't really touched on, yet. This world is _so huge_. And _so complex_. There are _so many things_ to do, and see, and try, that nobody could ever do them all. And anybody can pretty much do anything they want. You don't have to limit yourself to 'gentlemen's pursuits' like hunting or... whatever you used to do. You can do anything."

He stared at her a moment, wondering – ignorant of the details, but sensing the endless possibilities. Then he looked back at the gadgets in the kitchen and shook his head. "If the rest of your world is like this... surprises in every corner..."

She giggled. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

* * *

 **Swedish Rose**

Thorsten and Rose at last drew apart, their first kiss cementing itself into their memories forever, the first of a lifetime of them. "I love you," they both whispered at the exact same moment, and then shared the same sweet, ecstatic smile – and chuckle. Then Rose took a breath, her voice slightly stronger. "And on that note... can we get out of here? Paul doesn't need to be witnessing... that." She tipped her head backwards, indicating the aftermath of the Second Battle of Stanilesti, now out of sight beyond the Khan's tent.

"Absolutely," Thorsten agreed at once. He stopped and considered for a second. "Can you manage a horse again – just for a few miles? I think I saw an abandoned house just back down the road a bit."

Rose nodded, and he moved off to find her mare, leading it back within a couple of minutes, still saddled and with the extra blanket she'd been using for padding. He helped her mount up, then lifted up her young son and settled him in front of her on the saddle. Then he swung himself up on his own horse, and they were off, picking their way directly away from the action through the Turkish baggage train, helping themselves to some unguarded provisions on the way; then they rode around the outer fringes until they found the road they'd approached on.

The house was there, a short distance off the road at the edge of a small forest, and it was abandoned. Thorsten reversed the action of an hour before, lifting Paul off the horse and then helping Rose as she slipped down into his arms, groaning – no, the few subjective hours since she'd last dismounted hadn't healed those sore muscles in her bum _at all_.

Then Thorsten led the horses around the back to a waiting corral, while Paul and Rose went inside the house. It almost looked like the owners were expected back at any moment – all the scant, rickety furnishings were still there. When Thorsten came in a few minutes later, he explained, "They probably ran off as the armies came marching through a few days ago. We'll leave it the way we found it; and hopefully nobody else will come along to steal anything before they come back."

They made a quick supper from the supplies they'd lifted, then sat on the grass out in front of the house, watching the sunset and holding hands, while five-year-old Paul ran around catching fireflies. It wasn't long before his long day caught up to him, though, and he came to sit beside Rose. When his head slipped down into her lap, she looked down and smiled. "Out like a light." She leaned over to whisper in Thorsten's ear, "Give me fifteen minutes to make sure he's settled. Once he's asleep, he never wakes up till morning." Then she gathered him up and took him inside to the little bedroom, pulled his clothes off and tucked him into the bed.

She came back out to the front room to find Thorsten standing by the window, looking out into the quiet, still, darkening world. She went into his open arms and tilted her head for a kiss, which he gave her after a startled semi-second's hesitation, then he quickly got enthusiastic about the project. When she pulled her arms back around a few minutes later and began undoing the buttons on his shirt, he put his own hands over hers, stopping her, and peered uncertainly into her eyes in the deepening gloom.

She looked back at him for a moment, bewildered, then shook her head. "I've got a child in the other room. I think I know what's what."

He took a deep breath. "I think you're more prepared for this than I am," he admitted.

She slowly took her hands off the button she'd been working on, letting him hold them an inch from his chest. "Would you rather wait?" she asked levelly, hoping he'd say no.

He did, immediately, to her relief. "No! I just... wasn't expecting this is all." He paused, then asked, still unsure, "You don't want to wait for a priest?"

"No," her instant answer mirrored his of a moment before. "We're already together, Thorsten. I don't need some old man muttering over us to seal the deal."

He gave her a quick, amused smile at that, nodding agreement, but still he didn't move, so after a moment she whispered, so softly that he barely heard, "Touch me."

At last his hands released hers and moved to cup her cheeks, then he bent his head again to kiss her tenderly. As the kiss slowly deepened, his hands drifted downwards, caressing her neck, and then found the buttons on her own shirt.

Their blankets made a cozy nest on the floor before the fireplace, and Paul didn't wake up till the sun was shining again.

* * *

 **Reich Rose**

Watching through the windows of the gas station as the goon grabbed her old self coming out of the restroom, she dashed inside and picked up the car keys she'd dropped, grinning, then walked calmly out to her old beat-up car and drove home. Good thing I'd already paid for the gas, she thought and grinned again.

She sat in the car for a few minutes, watching Pete's shadow through the curtain in the front room, gathering her courage for the coming task. He would have set the alarms the moment she'd left earlier that evening, paranoid as he'd become. She decided to make an entrance to get his attention, climbed out of the car to stand beside it, quickly calculated the distance, and jumped herself into the kitchen.

"Whoa!" Pete cried from the doorway behind her. He'd almost walked right into her. "I didn't hear you come in!" He walked past her to the fridge. "I thought you were on your way to the university?" he asked over his shoulder, not really looking at her. As always.

"Change of plan," she began. "We've got a job to do, Dad – "

He suddenly held up a finger, gazing in consternation towards the front door. "Wait. I didn't hear the alarm go off. How'd you get in?"

"With this," she replied patiently, holding up her arm with the time jumper.

At last, he looked at her. It took him a second, then he asked excitedly, "Is that the transport disk? Did they get it working?" The American techies had been working for months on the disk Alpha Rose had left with them, having used it to jump them from harm's way in St Ives across to Ireland.

"No, Dad, it's something better – "

"Is it from Ulva? Is she back?"

Rose took a second to tamp down the hurt and jealousy at the eager look on his face at the thought that he might meet her twin again. "No, Dad, she's not back. It is from her, though. Or at least from her world."

"What is it, then?" he asked impatiently.

"It's a – a jumper. And it's better than the transport disk, for two reasons. One, it doesn't require somebody at a control station somewhere telling it what to do. All the circuits are right here. And two... Dad..." She paused, making sure she had his attention. "It takes the wearer, and anybody holding on to her, through space... and time." She emphasized the last two words, seeing his eyes go wide, and nodded. "We can go to any place, any time, we want."

"Are you kidding me?" He reached for her arm. "Let me see that."

"Later, Dad," she pulled her arm away, and repeated. "We've got a job to do."

She had his attention now, that was for sure. "What do you mean? What job?"

"Go get your gun, Dad." She stopped, blinking back sudden tears, swallowed, and said the words she'd been waiting for six long months to say – longer, for all those aching, empty, guilty years since that dreadful day in Southampton, the words Jared had told her back in the Hub were finally possible to say.

"We're going to go save Mum."

^..^

 _Back in the Hub, Alpha Universe, before Reich Rose's mission:_

"WHOA! Wait one minute!" Alpha Rose cut Jared and Reich Rose off. "Won't that bring down the Reapers? Just like my saving my Dad's life did? – In fact, I don't understand why they haven't been gathering already, in all these timeline splits."

"Reapers?" Reich Rose put in, her voice cracking. She was still absorbing Jared's astounding pronouncement.

"No, it won't," Jared answered his fiance, not bothering to explain to the other woman. "No, listen to me," he added quickly as she began to protest. "It's a different scenario altogether." He took a deep breath. "First of all, remember I told you back then that Reapers are like bandages? They're attracted to rips in time, like little cuts. They're actually like clotting agents in blood. Make a cut on your arm, bring one man to life when he shouldn't have been – one man who won't by himself change history – and the Reapers try to clot the blood and mend the rip. But if you make a big change, that big boulder in the river, it's more like cutting off an arm than making a cut. Blood clotting Reapers can't fix that, so the timestream splits instead. That's why they haven't been a problem for us."

"Are you telling me my Mum is going to change history?" Reich Rose asked, her voice cracking again, this time in disbelief. They didn't exactly blame her.

"No, she's not," Jared said kindly. "But saving her life isn't a problem anyway. Because... Rose... she didn't die." He shook his head to forestall her protest. "I know, you thought she did. But she didn't. The other day – well, the other day for us," he added ruefully, acknowledging that day was actually fifty years in the past and in another parallel, "I was looking through the cannon at your world – the Cornish Rift in your world is beginning to open up again, did you know that? – and I was looking to see if I could pinpoint the split, as I'd done for the others. And I looked for your timeline, and your Dad's. And... I saw your Mum's. There was a gap, between the time of that raid, and the current time – when were you kidnapped by Corvantes?"

She told him the date she'd been snatched, and he nodded again. "That's about when we were, too. And your Mum's timeline had reappeared. You're going to go back and rescue her, and bring her forward. She didn't die. She never died back then. And no Reapers, for that reason."

Reich Rose buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

^..^

 _Home again, Reich World:_

Pete's jaw dropped as his daughter explained what they were going to do. "You're sure about this time travel business?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I've been in the past already," she replied, but didn't elaborate. There would be loads of time in their future to tell the whole story. After they'd done this one little job.

Pete's long years running a Resistance cell immediately came to the fore, and he sat at the table and began planning the mission. Rose grabbed a soda from the fridge and joined him, and they came up with the basics in just a few minutes. There wasn't all that much to plan.

"We'd better wear the SS uniforms they made for us last year," Pete said thoughtfully. Rose grimaced; she'd hated the idea of wearing hers, and had sighed in relief when that particular mission was scrapped before it began. Nevertheless, the replicas, perfect in every detail, still hung in their closets accusingly. She nodded reluctant agreement; it made sense this time.

A few minutes later, she walked back out of her bedroom wearing the hated garments, buttoning up the coat. "Are you sure this fits right?" she asked, calling out to where she had heard him in the kitchen. She walked around the corner, and stopped dead at his loud gasp, looking up to see such an expression of haunted, horrified recognition that it froze her blood.

"Dad?" she whispered.

Pete began hyperventilating, sagging against the wall beside him, slowly crumpling over as if he'd been shot in the stomach. Maybe a few inches higher. "Oh my god," he repeated, over and over, his voice racked with pain and horror.

"Dad!" Rose stepped over beside him, horrified worry hovering over her shoulder. Was he having a heart attack?

He wasn't, quite. He looked up at her with tortured eyes. "I'm sorry, baby," he croaked out. "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head, bewildered, and he groaned, managing to push himself upright again. It took another minute for him to get it out. "I saw you. That night. The night I was arrested, and your Mum... the night we're going to. I saw you." She still didn't understand. "I saw this you, in this uniform. And I thought... oh, god... all these years, I thought you had become one of them. A Nazi. And I blamed you for what had happened, for your Mum's death. All these years... I've never been able to forgive you. But I was wrong. It wasn't you, was it? It wasn't your fault. Oh, baby..."

Tears were streaming down her face. She shook her head. "Dad," she whispered hoarsely. "You weren't wrong. It was my fault. I did inform on you."

He shook his head, hard, denying that at once. "But you said that Stones had gotten you drunk, and you didn't know what you were doing, right? You didn't know we were involved?"

She nodded. That was true.

"And you didn't... you weren't ever a Nazi?"

"No, Dad. I was never a Nazi. Ever."

He broke completely then, sobbing, and reached out to pull her into his arms. "I'm sorry, baby. Oh, god, I'm so, so sorry."

Sobbing along with her father, she put her arms around him and held him tightly; at long, long last, truly forgiven, the barrier between them that she'd never understood finally dissolved into mist.

* * *

 **Tudor Rose**

Rose raised her eyebrows high, challenging John with a smile. "Ready for more?"

Fresh from exploring the fantastical kitchen, he was game. "Lead on!"

Scooping up the shopping bag with his new clothes, she led him across the living room and through the arch into the bedroom, then paused by a closed door, turning to face him. "Remember those horrible, hideous garderobes? And the rushes in the back halls?"

"Ye-es..." he answered dubiously. He remembered quite well the fit she'd thrown about them.

In answer, she reached a hand and pushed open the door, flicking on the lights inside and revealing for the first time to the sixteenth-century gentleman... a modern bathroom.

Jaw dropping once again, he stepped inside the room and gaped around. She followed him in – it was quite roomy; one of the flat's major attractions when she'd selected it – and demonstrated the sink, and then, to his everlasting wonder, the toilet. After he'd flushed it a couple of times himself, he shook his head in amazement, and then turned to the big walk-in shower. "And what is that, then?"

She leaned back against the counter. "One of the things I haven't told you about yet is medicine. They've made incredible discoveries the past century or so – amazing ones. John, the doctors now really do know what they're doing – most of the time," she added wryly. "And their techniques have _completely_ changed. No bleeding people. No humors. They _really do know_ what causes disease in general, and can actually heal many or most of them. And one of the things they learned is how important cleanliness is. John... _everybody_ in this time period washes their whole body, every day. It's important. And it helps keep you healthy. And no, the water itself isn't dangerous. They treat it so that it's completely safe and clean. You can drink it without fear, straight out of the tap." She gestured to their other side, to the big sweetheart tub. "You can either take a bath, or a stand-up shower." Leaning in, she showed him how the taps were the same as on the sink, then identified the soap and shampoo on the ledge.

He peered at her, checking again. "It's safe?" She nodded. "And expected." That wasn't really a question, but she nodded anyway. "Does that mean you'd like me to start now?" he put on a disingenuous air.

She smiled sweetly, neither confirming nor denying, but then said, "And when you're clean, you can put on your new clothes!" and, handing him the bag and a towel, let herself out, closing the door on his bemused face.

She leaned against the wall next to the door for a moment, grinning, till she heard the water start in the shower. Glancing around, she spied the clock on the bedside table: getting on towards four in the afternoon. "Oh, _shit_!"

She dashed for the couch and snatched up her laptop from the coffee table, grimacing briefly at how she had no trouble at all remembering how to turn it on – or her password, even after eighteen technology-free months. She called up her schedule: no appointment for that night, thank god, but several over the coming days. She sent a message to each one to cancel, claiming the flu. Then she called up her own website, found the right admin tool, and clicked the button that took it offline, heaving a sigh of relief. Next stop: the phone company, where she calmly canceled her business phone number, and "Belle du Jour" vanished without a trace.

Next she went to her bank's website to check her balances. Looking them over carefully, she decided she had enough in her savings to carry them for several weeks, if they didn't get carried away with gourmet restaurants and such.

Sighing again, Hannah closed her laptop and leaned back on the cushions, deep in thought. Belle was done. She wasn't going to return to being a call girl again, not with John in her life! She wasn't even sure how she was going to tell him about that – or if she was going to at all. She bit her lip. _Cross that bridge when we come to it._

 _So how are we going to live, then?_ Well, there was one obvious answer, the same one as always, but she just wasn't sure she wanted to go back to it yet. _We have some time. I don't have to make a decision right this minute._

Turning her head to gaze out the window, she tried coming up with some ideas for how to ease John into modern life. His formal education was unknown, but probably only at the most basic level by modern standards. And he had no personal, documentable history in the modern world, and no identification. She had an idea, though, from her own past on how to find people who could fake all that.

She'd been aware of the shower shutting off several minutes before. The bathroom door at last opened and John wandered out, barefoot, his hair still damp, obviously a feeling a bit awkward at how his new jeans and Tshirt fit and felt. (She'd guessed right on his size, though, from the looks of it. _Rawr_.) He was also clean-shaven again, and she grinned at him as he sat down beside her.

"I see you found my razor." At his quizzical look, she rubbed her own cheek with the back of an index finger, and he caught on.

"I hope you don't mind?"

She shook her head. "No. You look better without the beard."

He smiled. "Thank you, Madame."

"I need a shower, too," she replied. "Will you be OK by yourself for a bit?"

John gave her a wry look. "Is this where I'm supposed to remind you not to treat me like a child?"

Hannah blinked, then gave him an apologetic smile, before heading to the bathroom.

Walking back out ten minutes later, after a detour thru her closet to put on some jeans and a tshirt to match his new outfit, she was just about to propose some food, when a loud _thump_ came from directly above their heads – then another, then several more in quick succession. And then a woman screamed.

* * *

 **Swedish Rose**

They ate breakfast around the table, discussing what to do; they had all the world to choose from, after all – although Thorsten, still Swedish, and still an official, did feel some responsibility towards his country and its government. They hadn't gotten very far, though, when Thorsten held up a hand for silence, listening intently. "Stay inside!" he warned Rose urgently, then walked to the front window.

"What is it?" she asked, breathlessly.

After a moment, he replied, "There's a large group of soldiers heading this way." His head was turned towards the distant battle site.

After another moment, though, he relaxed. "They're ours!" And he opened the door and walked outside to meet them. Rose stopped in the doorway, keeping a firm grip on Paul's hand, while the boy watched the long column of cavalry with wide, excited eyes.

The two men in front didn't seem so happy to see Thorsten, however. They gave him a sharp stare and spurred out of line to where he stood and began a sharp conversation, their voices sounding angry to Rose, though she still didn't understand the Swedish. As they continued, Rose placed them: the one in uniform was Colonel Svenson, King Charles's second-in-command from their manic ride across the country the days before; while the other, in "civilian" clothes, was Poniatowski, who had acted as the king's representative to the Sultan and the Grand Vizier. They were leading what remained of the Swedish troops which had accompanied Charles (perhaps all of them, from the looks of it) back towards Bender.

Thorsten asked a question and it was answered sharply. The stinging silence made Rose gasp, and she took a tentative step forward to his side and took his hand in hers. "Thorsten? What is it?"

He turned sorrowful eyes on her. "Charles died in the night, as I said he likely would. The king is dead."

Her breath caught. "I'm so sorry." A beat, while the continued silence weighed down the air. "Why are they angry with you?"

"They thought I had left for the north, to take the word of his death back to Sweden. They didn't realize I'd left before he died."

"Why would it be your duty to do that?"

He gave her a sharp look. "I was and still am the official observer for the Riksdag, the Ruling Council."

Svenson broke in then with another spate of Swedish, sounding harsh and demanding, and Thorsten sighed, but ignored him. "It's a damn long distance, Rose, and very hard riding. I can't ask you to go through that, but I won't leave you here."

Rose bit her lips to keep from laughing, looking down at the ground until she had her face under control. "Is it?" was all she said.

But she slowly bent her wrist and rubbed the time jumper hard against the inside of his forearm.

Thorsten's eyes widened. "You can take us to Sweden with that?" he whispered, his mouth twitching. She nodded, and watched him struggle to contain his own gleeful amusement.

Poniatowski drawled something, she didn't know what, but from the sound of his voice, and Thorsten's answering flush, she presumed it was a comment along the lines of "pussy-whipped". Instantly deciding to save her mate's face, she dropped her eyes again and said meekly – and a bit loudly – "Whatever you say, dear," and stepped backwards to the doorway again, taking Paul's hand once more.

Thorsten watched her go, his eyes showing he understood and appreciated it, then he turned back to the waiting, watching pair. A few more words were exchanged, calmly now on Thorsten's part, and the two suddenly whirled their mounts about and spurred hard back to the head of the passing lines.

Finally they were gone, and Thorsten turned back, his eyes dancing with excitement. "So, what do we do?"

* * *

 **Alpha Rose**

Jared and Rose had returned home in plenty of time for the wedding – flashing in to St Ives down the street from their own flat just in time to see the goon grab Rose and disappear. (Luckily, they were on the side away from the Island, so they didn't have to worry about the old Jared running into them on his mad dash to the hub – or Tock sniffing them out, for that matter).

"Perfect timing," Rose commented to nobody in particular. "Imagine that." Jared glared, then grinned.

They'd managed to fend off Jackie when she'd pounced on them after the ceremony, asking sharply how they had each managed to get sunburned faces in the twelve short hours since she'd seen them last. "Haven't you ever heard of tanning salons, Mum?" Rose asked innocently, netting herself a glare, but it had worked. They never breathed a word about the adventure, or their new time jumper.


	10. Finding Wings

**Finding Wings**

 **Reich Rose**

Rose used Google Earth to get the exact GPS coordinates of the little park near their old apartment, and they flashed into it after midnight the night of that long-ago raid, crept cautiously into the alleyway across the court from their front door, then finally flashed back a few hours to just before the raid. Hiding behind the dumpster, they watched as the three unmarked SS cars pulled silently up and discharged their occupants, who flowed up the two flights of stairs like a malevolent black tide. Into the flat they burst without knocking, engendering a short scuffle with screams and shouts, and then ominous silence. A few minutes later, a bedraggled, roughed-up, still-struggling Pete was frogmarched down the steps in handcuffs, yelling for Jackie until he was punched hard in the mouth to shut him up.

The older Pete turned and looked at his daughter. "You need to step out of the shadows, baby. You have to let me see you. The old me."

"Dad, no..." she whimpered.

"You have to, baby."

Heart breaking, she did as he said, and stepped into the dim glow of the street lamps. The younger man stopped dead as he was being put into the back of one of the cars, staring at her in total disbelief, then the SS man beside him punched him hard in the stomach to make him fold up, and shoved him through the door. As the others piled into two of the cars and left, Rose stepped back into her father's arms again.

"It's OK, baby," he told her over and over. "It's OK. I know the truth now."

A minute later, though, he gently pushed her back. "We need to get upstairs and in there NOW," he said, steely determination glinting.

"Shouldn't we wait till they bring her out?" Rose asked worriedly, and he shot her a grim look.

"No. They aren't going to bring her out until..." he couldn't say the words. "The neighbors said later that they heard her screaming after I was taken away."

The idea shocked her into instant motion. Her Mum was about to be raped, right now. They flew together across the court and up the steps, and Pete burst through the door with Rose on his heels in unconscious imitation of the SS men minutes before - just as a familiar female voice screamed from the back room. Jackie.

Nobody was in the front room. Pete stormed across to their bedroom door and crashed through it as well, causing the two men to jump before they looked at him sourly.

"Vas ist das?" began the one with his pants undone, getting the words out of his mouth just before Pete reached him and dropped him to the floor with one solid punch to the jaw. Then he rounded on the other, who had been holding Jackie's hands above her head, grabbed him by the collar and threw him across the room.

Rose ran to her Mum, sprawled across the bed, her clothes in disarray but not yet removed. "Mum! MUM! It's OK, Mum, it's me, Rose!" She reached up and took off her uniform cap, letting her blonde hair tumble down around her shoulders. Jackie finally recognized her daughter and fell into her arms, holding her so tightly Rose thought her back might crack. Not that she cared.

Her Mum was safe. Safe and unharmed.

Pete was still taking care of the two Nazis. When Rose looked around a minute later, one of them was already motionless on the floor, and Pete was kneeling on the other, the one who had his pants undone, grinding his knee into the man's throat as he pounded his fists into his face and head, over and over.

Rose disentangled herself swiftly from Jackie's arms and tore across the room, grabbing her Dad's arm and arresting its forward motion. "Dad! DAD! It's done. He's dead!"

He was. So was the other one, from the looks of it.

Pete got slowly to his feet, panting heavily. He slowly turned and looked at his wife, missing from his arms for all those years, his heart on his face.

"Pete!" she moaned. She'd gotten her clothes back in order, and slowly stood on shaking feet. She took a couple of steps towards him, then stopped again, peering into his face, disconcerted and bewildered.

"You look like you've aged ten years in the past ten minutes!"

* * *

 **Tudor Rose**

The woman's scream from above seared through Hannah's brain, and she reacted instantly and automatically. Without even thinking about it, she grabbed her personal mobile phone off the coffee table, punching the preprogrammed emergency shortcut without looking as she raced through her door and up the stairs. She yelled at the dispatcher, "Domestic assault in progress!" and gave him the address of the flat above hers, then thumbed the phone off before he could reply and dropped it in a pocket as she reached the floor above.

The door was open a crack, and she kicked it wide in fury, stepping into a flat filled with run-down furniture and smelling strongly of cleanser. At the far side of the room was a slim man, towering over a woman huddled, twisted where she'd fallen, between an overstuffed chair and the wall, her arms curved over her head in self-protection. The man had his fist swung back over his own head, about to pound her again, but swung towards the door in startled fury when it banged open.

"STOP IT RIGHT THERE, ASSHOLE!" His fury was nothing compared to the incandescent rage coursing through Hannah. _I'm not back two hours, and this has to happen._ She stalked across the room, ready to get between him and his victim. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a young child peeking out through the cracked-open bedroom door, their face a white slice of fear. "GET AWAY FROM HER, RIGHT NOW!" she went on.

"Who the hell are YOU, coming barging into my place and ordering me around?" He didn't move an inch.

"The one who's stopping you, moron. I said, GET AWAY!"

She'd made the mistake, in retrospect, of getting within arm's reach, and he simply used the same fist to backhand her, hard, across her face. She stumbled sideways – and right into John's arms. She'd completely forgotten him, but he'd apparently charged up the stairs right behind her. Now he bellowed his own rage at seeing this stranger strike his wife, and began to gently push her aside to charge.

Hannah whirled and physically held John back, while she startled all of them into freezing and staring at her with a loud shout of gleeful laughter. When she was sure John had stopped, she turned back and grinned maliciously at the man.

"That... was your biggest mistake, asshole." She touched her cheek and the corner of her mouth, and her fingers came away with a spotting of blood from a split lip. Her grin got bigger.

"What the fuck are you blibbering on about?" The stranger sneered.

Hannah pointed at the woman, still huddled on the floor, peeking out from behind her arms like her son. "She may be too cowed to press charges, but I'm not. And I've got a witness." She leaned back against John, almost casually, but her voice was pure triumphant. "You're going to jail, asshole."

"Like hell I am," he began to bluster, but then was cut off by a new voice, sounding laconically from the still-open door.

"Oh, I think you are." All of them whirled around to see a policeman standing there, large as life, his partner looming behind him.

 _One of the few times in my life I've ever been glad to see a cop_ , thought Hannah. "It's OK," she whispered to John. "They're the good guys." He glanced at her, puzzled, but then took her strange turn of phrase for what it sounded like, and stepped to one side to let the guardsmen by, wrapping his arms around Hannah to hold her close.

The lead policeman stepped past them, glancing at Hannah – and she turned her face and pointed to show him her bruising cheek – then peering down at the cowering woman. "Right. Smith, take our jolly boy here into custody. Come along, man, we're going down to the station for a little chat." He stood back and watched carefully as his partner cuffed the man, patted him briefly down, then led him out the door.

Immediately the tension in the room melted by several degrees. The policeman took a step towards the woman on the floor, but she cowered down even further, fear in every line of her body.

"Officer, let me," Hannah said. She stepped to the woman's side, and while she didn't exactly come up for air, she didn't flinch away from Hannah, either. Hannah turned back to the cop. "I'll take her to the women's shelter. You can come by later to get her statement. All right?"

He nodded agreement.

"How'd you get here so fast, anyway?" Hannah wanted to know.

"Oh, we were on our way already. There was a dead line call to emergency from this address." The policeman caught sight of the child and smiled, stepping lightly closer to the bedroom door and squatting just out of arm's reach, unthreatening. "Would that have been you, brave lad?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Were you calling to protect your mum?"

His eyes huge in his white face, the boy – it was a boy, Hannah remembered now - nodded silently.

"Good lad. You did a very good and very brave thing. Thank you very much." He held out a hand. "Can you come out?"

This time the boy shook his head, hard, and the officer sighed. He got up slowly, so as not to startle the boy, and turned back to Hannah. "You'll be OK with the both of them, Miss?"

She nodded, but then he peered suddenly closer, only then getting a good look at her face. She only had a second's warning. "Miss Tyler, isn't it?"

Startled to hear "Tyler" rather than her professional name, it took her a second to react, but then she returned the close look and smiled. "Sergeant Barkley! It's been a while."

He nodded. "Yes, it has. Well, I'll leave this in your capable hands, then." And with that cryptic remark, he turned and left.

Hannah and John stared at each other a moment as the door closed behind the police officer. John raised his eyebrows at her, as if to say "What's next?", but he seemed calm, so she pointed at the boy still peeking around the bedroom door and said quietly, "See if you can coax him out." He nodded and walked slowly over, squatting down as Sergeant Barkley had done, and began talking to the boy in a low, friendly voice.

Hannah, meanwhile, turned around again and knelt down, too, by the woman still huddled beside the chair. "It's all right. Everything's going to be all right now." The woman finally lowered her arms, peering fearfully at Hannah.

"My name's Hannah. I live right downstairs from you. I've seen you and your little boy in the lobby a few times." She smiled warmly, trying to put her at ease. "What's your name?"

"Irina," came the hesitant reply. She seemed to have a bit of an eastern European accent.

Hannah smiled again. "Hello Irina. Everything's going to be OK now. I'm going to take you and your son to a women's shelter, where he can't hurt you." Irina started shaking her head, and Hannah tried to reassure her. "You don't have to press charges if you really can't. I will, though. It would help if you could make a statement about him slapping me, but even that's OK..." she trailed off, as Irina had continued shaking her head, harder and harder.

"I can't..." she almost wailed. "He said..." She stopped dead, biting her lips.

"What did he say?" A pause, but no reply. "Did he threaten to hurt you? Or kill you? Or your son?" She wouldn't have been a bit surprised, but Irina immediately denied it, with a ring of veracity.

"No! He wouldn't..."

Then, hearing her accent again, Hannah gently guessed, "Did he say he'd have you deported?"

At that, Irina's eyes flew wider. She didn't nod, but she stopped shaking her head.

"Irina, he can't. He can't do it himself, and he can't get the authorities to do it. They will protect you, both from him and from being sent back. I know exactly who to call and where to take you, to get you that protection. It's all right. There are programs specifically designed to assist and protect immigrant women who've been assaulted by their partners. They won't send you back. Instead, they'll help you get away from him, so you never have to see him again, and help you start a new life, right here in England, with your son." Stressing the last words, Hannah had laid a gentle hand on Irina's arm as she spoke.

Irina's eyes had slowly gone liquid, as a ray of hope, so often extinguished, seeped back into them. "Truly?" she whispered, not daring to believe.

"Truly." And with that, Irina started to sob in relief. Hannah pulled her close and let her get it out of her system, murmuring reassurances.

When the tears began to slow, Irina pulling herself back together, Hannah eased back, then stood up and pulled Irina to her feet, too. "OK. You'll need to get a couple of bags together, one for you and one for your son, with enough clothes for just a couple of days. And any important papers you have. And medicines. Can you do that quickly?" Irina nodded, and turned towards the bedroom, holding out her hand to the boy and speaking in a foreign language Hannah didn't recognize.

As they disappeared to pack, John picked himself up off the floor, too, and Hannah went to him, impulsively slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him. "Thank you!" she told him, and at his raised eyebrows explained, "for coming to my rescue."

"I don't think you needed rescuing. I'm not sure what's going on," he admitted.

Hannah eased back and gave him a level look. "Next big change. It is against the law for any man to hit his wife – or children – the way he was doing. Or at all, really. Or anyone else, like me." An impish glint came into her eyes, and she poked his chest with a forefinger. "So don't go getting any ideas!"

His eyebrows shot up, and so did his hands, out and above his head – but an echoing glint was there in his eyes. "And is it also against the law for women to hit men?"

"Yes," she twinkled.

John wilted, feigning relief with a huge sigh. "Thank goodness." His arms crept back around her torso. "So what is happening now?"

"Well, I'm going to take the two of them to a shelter – a safe place, where they'll protect and help her, and he can't hurt her any more." She bit her lip, apologetically. "And I'm sorry, but they won't let you in there, either: you're a man. I hate to do this, but could you go back down to our place and wait for me there? I promise, I won't be long – not more than two hours. I'll even bring us back some food!"

"Food would be good," he mused. "But actually, what I think I'll do is go lie down on that humongous bed and try to get some sleep. I didn't sleep at all last night."

"Me, neither," she admitted, then added in a voice tinged in wonder, "Was it really just last night? Was it really just a couple of hours ago that we were about to be beheaded?"

He shook his head, deadpanning, "Feels like about five hundred years, to me..." And Hannah cracked up, John joining in gleefully just a beat behind.

A minute later, Irina and her son came out of the back room, each carrying a couple of plastic shopping bags stuffed with clothes, and the boy clutching a Spiderman doll. Sobering, John leaned over and kissed Hannah on the forehead, murmuring, "Wake me up when you get home."

* * *

 **Byzantine Rose**

Rose leaned back in her airplane seat and tried to relax a little. The kids were all settled down at last, and she could take a few minutes to her own thoughts.

It had been an incredibly satisfying five years since her return from the past. The new secular elementary school (kindergarten through eighth year) had hired her on as a teacher's assistant to begin with, since she'd only just gotten her teaching certificate, and assigned her to Mrs. Clarkson, a highly-respected, well-loved fifth-year teacher with over two decades' experience in the classroom. She, in turn, had set Rose to helping the kids in her class who needed a little extra tutoring, as they were in danger of falling behind. Rose sat them down around the circular table in back of the class and started them reading a book supposedly two grades below them, quickly realizing that she'd stumbled upon precisely what was needed: remedial reading instruction.

And that began it. Within weeks, everyone realized she had a true gift for reaching the hardest cases, slicing almost magically through the fog of whatever their individual handicap was and watching the light dawn behind their eyes. She quickly became the school's official remedial reading teacher, and over the years, spread the gift – and the joy – of the written word far and wide. Her name was even becoming know beyond her own school's walls as something of a miracle worker. When asked, though, she couldn't say how she did it. It was as much a mystery to her as to everyone who took a quiet, unobtrusive seat in her classroom and watched.

Her lifelong secret favorite pupil, though, was the quiet, shy little boy hiding a previously-undetected case of dyslexia behind his startling sea-green eyes who, once the mental key was turned, found his natural element in the written word, and was rarely found thereafter without the company of one, and sometimes several, increasingly thick books. (He would often come back to visit her in the years to come, talking about every subject under the sun, and she attended his eventual graduation summa cum laude from the foremost law school in the country with glowing, planet-busting pride.)

She'd been invited this summer to go along as one of the teacher chaperones on the eighth-years' graduation extravaganza: a week-long trip to the holy city of Constantinople. It hadn't taken much urging for her to say yes – none at all, in fact. She was dying to see the scenes of her secret triumph six centuries in the past – not that she had ever once breathed a word of it to anyone. Nor had she ever taken out the time jumper from the box she'd hidden it in, far back in the cluttered recesses under her bed. But for some reason, it just felt right to bring it along, so here it was, hiding under her long sleeved pullover sweater on this long, boring flight across the continent. No way was she going to put it through checked luggage!

At last, the four-hour flight ended, and she shepherded her small subset of rowdy fourteen-year-olds through baggage claim and customs, and out to the waiting buses. Their guides for the week-long stay met them on board, and had the drivers take the (very) long, roundabout route to the hotel, giving them a rolling orientation tour of the city.

The next day, they piled back onto the buses and followed the Pilgrim's Route through town, seeing the major historical sights along the way, and finally – FINALLY!, thought Rose – ended up at the fabled, sacred Gate of Our Lady, known in ancient times before the Miracle as the Saint Romanus Gate; the place where the Angel of Heaven, Saint Rose, and her companion, Saint Jacques, had shone the wrath of God and saved the Holy City from the Infidel Turks. (Rose kept having to smother a giggle every time that line was mentioned, gathering increasingly-irritated glares from the guides and other tourists.)

Then they walked around a corner from the parking lot into the wide park before the gate, and she gaped, gasping. The entire tower she had once stood on top of, theatrically brandishing the sword while Jack had set off his rockets, had been ensheathed in brilliant, shining gold. Not only that, but twin larger-than-life-size statues of the two Angels had been chiseled from the whitest marble and set in place upon the parapet. Saint Rose (no inconvenient resemblance, she noted absently) stood tall, wings outstretched, pointing her eight-foot sword to the heavens, while Saint Jacques, his own wings carefully tucked back but hardly out of sight, drew back his mighty bow, a moment before loosing a gigantic, fiery arrow.

It was all she could do not to crack right up and howl with laughter. _I sure hope Jack never saw this. His head is big enough as it is!_

* * *

 **Swedish Rose**

Rose had no coordinates, and knew it was a gamble, but they decided that nine hundred miles due north would put them in pretty much the right area, certainly saving them the bulk of the hard ride across what could still be termed "enemy country", and they could go on from there. Sadly, they had to leave the horses behind – Rose had no idea if the jumper's field would extend to cover them, and didn't want to try – but Thorsten said they'd be a gift to the owners of the house for its use. As they didn't want to get there too suspiciously soon, they also agreed to jump three weeks into the future, enough time from Charles's date of death that they could have made it the traditional way if they'd REALLY pushed it hard.

Packs once more on backs, holding tightly to each other, the three of them came out of the transport flash onto the cobbled street of a bustling northern city made of wood and brick. Thorsten spun on his heel, studying the view all around, then stopped in amazement, his jaw dropping. "I know where we are! This is Narva!" They were lucky – a few miles more and they might have been dropped into the frigid waters of the Gulf of Finland.

A short, fascinating walk across town to the port, and they found a merchant ship headed straight for the Swedish capital, Stockholm. Even though Narva was officially in Russian hands at the moment, and Russia was officially still at war with Sweden, trade never stopped.

Paul was ecstatic at being on a real sailing ship, the three masts full of sails capturing his imagination and propelling it across the water with the dolphins at the prow. He ran Thorsten ragged as he raced around the decks chattering to any sailor who'd smile at him, and they all did, whether or not they understood a word. He quickly became the crew's temporary, unofficial mascot and pet. Rose smiled to herself as she watched her two "boys" grow closer together, falling into an easy friendship regardless of the vast difference in their ages. Paul was already beginning to look up to and rely upon his new stepfather – although he hadn't quite realized that relationship yet. Time enough for that later.

When they arrived in Stockholm three days later, Thorsten found a carriage for hire, and gave the driver an address. It proved to be a four-story building, the street level full of small shops, with three floors of apartments above. Thorsten's flat was on the third floor, little used in recent years, but still waiting for him, kept clean in his long absences by a woman who came in once a month to dust things off.

"It's not very large," he told Rose apologetically. She stared at him a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Thorsten, it's ten times the size of the place we were living in. We had one room – and in fact, it could fit into this parlor with room to spare."

"Really?" His astonishment quickly slid into a proud, mock-gallant air. "In that case, welcome to your new home, Fru Sjovold!"

She laughed again in delight, then turned rueful. "I really do need to learn Swedish, don't I?"

^..^

She did so rather quickly, actually – well, enough to get by at least.

Thorsten apologetically had to leave her and Paul at the apartment for several hours that first day, as he went to make his report of the king's death to the authorities. He didn't return until quite late that night, exhausted from the endless questions and repetitions of all his knowledge of the events at Stanilesti – and before. Charles had never been very good at keeping the home office informed, and Thorsten's memory, and his little notebook, were thoroughly wrung dry of every detail.

The government was, of course, thrown immediately into turmoil, as they dealt with the succession, and the implications of Russia's collapse in the wake of her own Tsar's death with no heir or any clear successor. A new Swedish army was swiftly thrown together and marched off to press Sweden's claim to her part of the territory, under the command of the most senior officers to be found – not Thorsten, Rose was relieved to hear. He'd given up his commission years before, and could neither be induced nor drafted into returning. (The troops swiftly marching north from Bender under Colonel Svenson finally met up with the main forces outside Moscow for their part in the wrangling, beating the Turkish troops marching in a long line from Moldavia by a scant five days. The third army, from Poland, arrived last but largest, and the resulting three-way fooforaw threatened to turn ugly before the issue was settled diplomatically, with long lines carving up the map rather than long knives carving up people. At any rate, Russia's vast territory was divided into three portions in the west, with the nearly-empty east left largely to its own devices.)

Instead, Thorsten took a minor position in the new, more constitutional government as an aide to one of the ministers, watching from the sidelines as eventually Charles's sister Ulrica Eleanor was voted into the monarchy, then a short time later abdicated in favor of her Hessian husband, Frederick. The years that followed were joyful, peaceful ones for the new – and growing – family, as first one, then two years later, a second beautiful daughter was born. During Ulrica Eleanor's short reign, she handed out titles and estates by the handful, seeking support from Sweden's previously-displaced nobility, and Thorsten successfully petitioned for his own childhood home – gambled away by his inheriting elder brother before his own death – to be restored to him. He also got the title back (a minor one), but didn't care and never used it. He proudly moved his family into the (relatively) small manor house some ways south of Stockholm and retired from government service again, settling into the life of a country gentleman farmer with joy and satisfaction.

And then Elsa, the older of the two girls, got sick.

At first it was the usual childhood complaints, but they swiftly became continuous, and worse. Soon she was bedridden, her frail four-year-old body becoming weak and pale as the sheets she lay on.

The doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with her, and before very long Rose had had enough.

"Thorsten," she told him one night. "I'm not going to stay here and watch my baby die. These doctors know nothing. But the doctors of my time – of the twenty-first century," she swiftly amended, seeing the hurt in his eyes, "they DO. They CAN help. Please, Thorsten. Please. Let me take Elsa back to that time. Please..."

"No," he replied, utterly shocking her, but then he continued. "We'll ALL go. She's my child, too."

* * *

 **Tudor Rose**

A half hour and a taxi ride later found Hannah leaning on one elbow on the front desk of the women's shelter, just waiting. Irina was in a nearby office, telling her story to the counselor. Suddenly, a tiny hand crept into hers, and she looked down beside her to smile encouragement at Irina's son, who, truth to tell, she hadn't really gotten a good look at, yet; he'd been hiding on Irina's other side even in the taxi – and got the shock of her life.

His wide eyes, gazing solemnly up at her from his young face, were a brilliant sea-green.

Barely breathing, Hannah tilted her hand slightly to look at the back of his – and there it was: the Sicily-shaped birthmark.

She twisted around, still holding his hand, and knelt in front of him. "Are you Paul?" she asked, her voice breathless.

He nodded silently. She still hadn't heard him utter a word. Small and slim, he looked to be about four – just old enough to have absorbed the knowledge of how to dial 999 for emergencies.

A reassuring smile crept across her face, and she reached to smooth and tuck in his shirt. "It's OK, Paul. Everything's gonna be OK." He suddenly flung his little arms around her neck, and she held him tight, repeating it over and over. "Everything's gonna be OK."

^..^

She was just finishing up all her paperwork, still standing at the front desk, including her own complaint against Irina's husband, when a familiar voice sounded behind her. "I heard what you did."

She smiled, but didn't even look up. "Hello, Rebecca," she said, sardonically sing-songing the greeting the other had skipped.

Rebecca stepped around the corner of the counter so she could see Hannah's face. Somewhere in her fifties, the sprinkling of grey hairs and the combination of both laugh and frown lines in her face spoke of a hardworking woman who cared deeply about others, while her slightly-worn serviceable suit put her in mid-level management somewhere.

"When are you going to stop wasting your degree and come back to work for me again?" Typically, she plunged past the preliminaries. "You were a GREAT social worker, Hannah – and now you'd be even better, for having been where you've been. You _know_ where to find women in trouble, you _know_ how to reach them, how to speak to them, and get them in contact with the services they need, and they _trust_ you. Come back, baby," she added, coaxingly. "We need you."

Hannah hadn't even looked up from her papers, a knowing smile playing across her face while she heard the familiar plea. Rebecca snorted ruefully, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. "End of regularly-scheduled advert. You know where to find me..." She reached over and gave Hannah's upper arm a quick, approving squeeze. "Good work, baby."

Hannah signed the last sheet, then stood staring at it for a moment while Rebecca walked away, heels clicking on the worn linoleum. _Well, here it is. It really is the logical choice. And... I_ _am_ _good._ Before she was even consciously aware of choosing, she blurted out, "Rebecca!"

"Yeah?" her former boss paused and looked back.

Hannah slowly spun on her heel, put her hands in her pockets, and gave the other woman a long, rueful look, chewing on her lower lip. Then she tipped her head towards the front door. "Let's go get some coffee."

* * *

 **Celtic Rose**

Three years had passed since Rhosyn's adventure with the Iceni. Some days she felt she would burst if she couldn't tell someone about it, but she never did – no one would ever believe her, not without a demonstration of the time jumper, and that was one thing she never felt safe doing. No, the entire thing remained her little secret, even as those around her – especially her mum, Jackie – wondered at her sudden new-found self-confidence.

She hadn't quit her job in that dreary shop right away – though she'd certainly had to scramble home that morning to change clothes, making her late for work and gaining a lecture on punctuality (she didn't quite trust her meager understanding of the time jumper to use it instead) – but had bided her time, making plans. The idea of what she wanted to do had slowly crystallized back there in the primeval forests; the steps weren't easy, but doable. She signed up for evening classes in business and accounting, first – and let Ciaran, her good-for-nothing boyfriend, drift away complaining she was always too busy for him between work, classes and studying. No big loss there, and he was soon happily ensconced in a relationship with a new girlfriend in the next neighborhood over.

She also returned to the dojo where she'd learned akido, rekindling her friendship with one of the masters, Kiersten, informally assisting her during classes and trading that for equally informal lessons. She began showing her the things she'd learned back in the past, never telling where, and together they began quietly working up a new style of self-defense incorporating all they knew.

Then, the day she graduated from night school, degree in hand, she returned to the dojo and made Kiersten a modest proposal: "Let's open our own dojo and teach this stuff to others. You teach; and I'll manage the business." Kiersten stared for a moment, startled, then slowly nodded her head, and a wide grin captured her mouth.

"Let's do it."

They found a suitable storefront not far away, at reasonable rents, and Kiersten plunked down enough from her meager savings to get them started. The next few months were frantic with activity, plastering advertising flyers all over the place, calling schools and organizations offering discount rates. Before long, business was booming, as the word spread of this new style. The White Wolf Way – named for the mystical spirit said to have guided the legendary warrior queen, Boudicca, as she fought off the Romans back in ancient history (which always gave Rhosyn a small, private smile, which she never explained) – was suddenly hot, and competitors were soon attempting to copy them.

But most important to both women, however, was the attention they paid to each individual student, helping him or her face and overcome their personal difficulties, whatever they were. To that end, they were especially proud and attentive to the contract they signed with the local child protective services branch, giving lessons to orphans and foster kids at a steeply discounted rate – as low as they could manage and stay afloat.

Then came the day when a new boy arrived from the nearby orphanage for his first lesson. Rhosyn looked up from her desk to see him hanging shyly around the front door, peering up through shaggy bangs at the other kids uncertainly, and something about him caught her attention. Skinny as a reed, he looked almost malnourished, maybe ten or eleven years old – and something about his manner spoke quietly of past physical abuse. She got up and walked over to him to introduce herself and welcome him to the dojo – and got the shock of her life as he turned to stare at her.

His eyes were a brilliant sea-green. "I'm Paul," he said, desperately trying to project some tissue-thin confidence, stuffing his hands deep into his jeans pockets – but not before she glimpsed the distinctive birthmark on the back of one of them. "Paul Corvantes."

* * *

 **Swedish Rose**

Rose did things the smart way, for once. Swallowing her fear for Elsa, she put on some clothes that wouldn't garner her TOO many odd stares up ahead, pulled the time jumper out from the bottom of her dresser drawer where she'd tucked it away so long before, scrolled back through the last two jumps, reversed the settings, and pressed Execute. She landed back in her little council flat, just minutes after she'd jumped out with Paul. His left-behind clothes were still piled neatly on their bed, and she took a minute to steady herself, caught between misty memory and stark terror for her daughter.

She'd remembered the manager's last words to her about the lottery, "They haven't found the winner yet from last Saturday!" She rifled through the stack of newspapers waiting to be recycled and found the day in question, wrote down the winning numbers, then flashed back to the day before the drawing, bought her ticket, flashed back, and calmly went down to the lottery office to claim her winnings – the largest single jackpot in history. Luckily, they allowed her to remain anonymous, having recently changed the rules in the wake of too many horror stories of winners hounded into penurious insanity.

From there, she went shopping for a house, finding an old, abandoned – supposedly haunted – mansion a mile from the best children's hospital in all of England. Paying cash in full, she contracted workmen to fix it up and a decorator to finish and furnish it, then hopped forward through an entire year and a half one month at a time, checking on their progress. At last it was ready, and she returned to their house in Sweden, an hour after she'd left, collected the family, and brought them forward.

Now, a year later, she and Thorsten were sitting side-by-side in the office of the best specialist in Britain, waiting for the results of the latest round of tests. They sat silently, still, each lost in their own fearful thoughts, just quietly holding hands, giving and taking desperate strength from each other. Rose had brought her daughter forward just in time; the dread disease had progressed to a life-threatening stage, necessitating an operation and several risky, cutting-edge procedures and drug treatments.

Rose and Thorsten had spent the intervening year taking turns staying with Elsa in the hospital, and watching the other two kids. Paul – who this time understood that the "Swedish magic" had brought them through three centuries – was way behind his age group in modern schools, of course, so Rose had bought into a homeschooling program for him – the girls were still younger than school age. Thorsten took over the lessons for the most part – Rose suspected he was learning as much as their ten-year-old son.

Suddenly the office door swung open and the doctor walked in. He didn't go to his desk but straight to their chairs, the broad, ecstatic smile on his face telling them the news before he could even speak.

"It's gone. She's cured."

And they collapsed together in relieved hysterics.

* * *

 **Tudor Rose**

Hannah walked around a corner in the flat, her mind on something else, and almost ran into John. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing only a pair of jeans, shaving, and the sight hit her right in the – gut. "Oh, GOD!" she cried, squeezing her eyes shut and whirling around.

"What?" he cried, alarmed.

She took a deep breath, then forced herself to walk across the bedroom to look out the window. "Nothing. I just really wish you wouldn't do that sometimes."

"What?" he asked again, more calmly this time, albeit no less confused.

Feeling she was wading in emotional quicksand, she blurted out, "Stand around half-naked like that."

Silence for a moment. Then she caught a hint of movement in the reflection of the glass – he'd eased the bathroom door partly shut behind him, a true gentleman, then asked around it, "Why? I thought it was all right in this century." She didn't answer right away. "Hannah?"

"It is, culturally. But I still wish you wouldn't."

Another long pause. "Why?"

She sighed, and let out the truth. "Because you're sexy as hell. And you're my husband, even. And I can't have you. Because I'm 'not your type'," she explained, her voice supplying the air quotes.

"Oh," came the quiet response. There was a long silence. "Hannah?" he said softly. "Or... actually... Belle. Can I ask you a question?"

The use of the old name startled her. She'd confessed her former profession to him a few weeks ago, forced by a chance meeting with a former client that she never wanted to recall, let alone relive, and it had been an "interesting" conversation, to say the least. But he'd finally calmed down, and things had returned to normal. Well, normal for them. "OK," she said now, a bit wary, but keeping her promise to always be honest.

"Have you ever... been with... someone like me?"

That threw her. She wished she could see his face. "A gay man? Just gay? No, because he wouldn't be interested. But bi? I'm sure there must have been." She'd also taught him the terminology.

The splashing water told her he had returned to shaving, slowly, obviously thinking at the same time. "But... how would you know? I don't mean you... I mean... how does anybody know what they are? If they've never..."

This conversation was definitely getting odder by the minute. "Orientation isn't about experience, John. It's about attraction."

The water went gurgling down the sink drain. "It's not as clear cut as all that, either," came his cryptic reply.

She'd had enough, and turned around at last to look at the half-closed door. "John? Is that an invitation? Because I will take you up on it." She tried to make it light, but it came out a bit forcefully.

She could have sworn she heard him chuckle. He flicked off the light and came out of the bathroom, then prowled over to loom in front of her, gazing intently into her eyes, positively oozing sex appeal. "No, Madame," he replied, mock-formally. "It's a declaration of intent."

And with that, his mouth claimed hers, and there was no more talking for a very long time.

Well, not in complete sentences, anyway.

^..^

Some time later, they were lying spoon-fashion, Hannah barely aware of her surroundings, sated and glowing. John's lips were a scant inch from her ear. "Satisfied?" he inquired.

"Mrrrowrrr," purred the tigress, and he lifted his head up, startled, then started laughing.

"I take it that means yes?"

"Mrrrressss."

He laid back down, still chuckling. "You make the most interesting sounds..." He was quiet for a moment, then put his mouth right next to her ear to whisper again, "Better than Henry?"

She instantly burst into helpless, almost hysterical laughter. He propped himself all the way up on one elbow at that, and when she glanced back she could see he wasn't smiling, his eyebrows knotted in concern, not at all sure how to take her reaction. She couldn't speak, but she nodded exaggeratedly, and a relieved smile broke out on his handsome face.

Finally getting herself under control again, she told him, breathless, "No comparison. You are so far out of his league, you're not even in the same sport." She started to roll back over to her side again, but then stopped, shooting him an amused sideways look. "You had it pegged way back on the very first day we met." That confounded him, and she quoted his words from their first meeting in the chapel. " 'Henry, think of somebody else? I thought you knew him.' "

She didn't expect him to shoot instantly back with her own response from that long-ago day. " 'I thought you loved him.' "

She rolled back over and put her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

"Never. You know that."

^..^

The next day she came home from work to find him leaning back on the couch in his now-fading blue jeans, once again shirtless, bare feet stretched out on the coffee table, arms crossed behind his head, staring off into space. She groaned theatrically. "There you go again, being all sexy and stuff."

He grinned at her, and held out one hand. "Come here." His voice was low and throaty.

She went to sit on the couch beside him, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap, instead, and began kissing her soundly. She melted into him for a moment, then stiffened and straightened up. "Don't tease me," she implored.

"I'm not," he replied earnestly. But instead of pulling her head back down to his, he went on, seemingly non sequitur. "Can you guess what I've been doing all day?"

She shook her head, bewildered, and he waved a hand towards the laptop computer she'd bought him a few weeks ago, sitting on the coffee table. "Looking at dirty pictures, of all sorts." He gave her a tiny smirk. "Testing myself, and my reactions. And... I think I've figured out what I am."

"And that is?"

"I'm ninety-five percent gay. And the other five percent... is all you."

"You're attracted to me?"

"Very much. But you're apparently the only woman I'm much attracted to." She wasn't sure if this was reassuring or not, and he noticed her discomfort. "What's wrong?"

She chewed her lip for a moment, a thousand stories of gay men leaving their wives after years of supposedly-happy marriage flashing through her mind. "What about everybody else you're attracted to? What if that gets to be too much to resist?"

He shook his head. "Isn't everybody attracted to other people besides the one they're married to? But isn't that the point of being married? To not act on that attraction?" He grimaced, and she could almost see the name Henry behind his eyes. "Well, for us common folk, anyway."

"Is that what we have? A marriage?"

"Don't we? I admit, it took over a year to consummate it, but..." All the humor dropped from his eyes, and he added with frank simplicity, "I love you, Hannah."

She was breathless. She hadn't ever expected to hear him say that. "I love you, too," she whispered, unable to speak any louder.

"Then come here," he repeated, his voice husky again. Snaking a hand behind her neck, he pulled her back down, where no words were needed.


	11. Influence

**Influence**

 **Alpha Rose**

After the reception dinner at the Tragenna Castle Hotel, they took the late afternoon train down to Plymouth and checked into a fancy hotel there for their wedding night. They were to board their private zeppelin for their honeymoon tour to and around Ireland the following noon at the Plymouth air field. So naturally, while they were lingering over breakfast in bed, the hotel phone rang.

Rose answered, then put it on speaker a moment later, rolling her eyes at her new husband with a sour look. "Say that again, Danny?"

"I'm sorry, luv. I'm so, so sorry. But you really need to get back here. Right now. Both of you," answered the Torchwood tech apologetically.

"Why?"

Danny hesitated. "I'll show you when you get here. Rose... You know I wouldn't do this to you for nothing, right?"

She sighed and clicked off, slumping back onto the pillows.

"Don't worry," grinned Jared. "We'll still make the flight. No matter how long it takes." Reaching a long arm, he picked the time jumper up off the nightstand and started to buckle it on his wrist. Then he stopped, and tossed it to Rose, instead. "Here. You need the practice."

A short time later (long enough to get dressed), the two humans and their constant canine companion flashed into Beta's version of the hub, hidden under the haunted chapel on the Island in St Ives. "All right, then, what is it?" Rose asked wearily.

"It's happening again. The same pattern as before," Danny told her. Jared, glancing quickly around, saw that only Danny and the other local tech, Chris, were there, as usual – Pete had apparently headed back for London with Jackie and Tony.

"You mean..." Rose said sharply.

Danny nodded. "Every single lifeline is converging, on a single person. And it's being mirrored in all the parallels, too."

Chris, over at the other station, put in, "And the Rift is acting up, too. Spiking like crazy."

"Who?" Rose asked Danny, ignoring Chris for the moment – although somehow, she already knew the answer.

"You. And the other Rose Tylers, too." Danny waved a hand up at the large overhead screens, as he pushed each parallel's display up onto them. Rose and Jared stepped forward, staring wide-eyed at the tell-tale patterns. Just as Danny had said, each world's tangled mass or lifelines were bending, twisting and converging around one single line, each with the same label. Rose Tyler.

"But it can't be," Rose protested. "It's over. We fixed it all!"

"This is current?" Jared checked with Danny, who nodded. He stared back at his new wife. "This is something new, Rose. Something else. And it's about to happen, right now!"

"Whoa!" Chris cried. "My god, look at the Rift! It's spiking off the scale!"

All four turned to stare at the recent addition to the hub, which Jared had been working on since his arrival in Beta: a tall, thick glass tube running from floor to ceiling, closed at both ends, and surrounded by conduits and circuits. He had managed to construct a containment field for the Rift. Normally, a dimly fluctuating silvery glow lit the tunnel, giving it a calming feeling.

Not any more. Suddenly it was wildly sparking, a glowing river of plasma that caught the eye and held it.

Drawn unthinkingly forward, Rose stepped towards the mesmerizing glow, when the time jumper on her wrist abruptly sent a tremendous shock through her skin. Jumping, she started to bring that arm up to check it out, when something else caught her eye: a miniscule beam of light that zapped from the jumper straight into the Rift a heartbeat later.

And before she could take a breath, a brilliant, unearthly white beam of light returned from the opening Rift and hit her face.

* * *

 **Reich Rose**

"That's about right," Pete said with a tight, ironic little snort, just shy of a sob. "Ten years." He reached out then and gathered Jackie in his arms, burying his face in her hair. "Oh, Jacks, Jacks..." he whispered.

Rose decided she didn't really want or need to witness this reunion. She leaned over and grabbed one of the dead SS men's arms, jerked him closer to the other, then grabbed one of his as well. Then she punched the coordinates of the nearby wharf into the time jumper – she'd known of old precisely how many steps it took to reach it, her hiding place from her Mum's incessant fussing while Dad was locked up in prison – added six hours to reach it some time well past midnight, and undertook to dump the bodies.

I'm getting good at this, she smirked as she and the two corpses came out of the transport flash within a few feet of the dock's edge. She looked around carefully to make sure the wharf was deserted, but saw not a single soul, not even a stray cat. She took the time to remove the men's outer uniforms, then rolled them both into the drink, wishing she could have weighted them down, but not caring enough to take the time.

She scooped up the uniforms and turned around, intending to stuff them into a nearby dumpster, and froze. She hadn't been alone after all.

Perched in the open top of that dumpster was a young boy, staring at her through the gloom, his mouth agape. Steeling herself, she walked towards him, calling for him to stop when he jerked as if to run.

"Come down here, lad. I'm no threat to you."

His eyes were showing the whites, but he did as ordered, dropping lightly as a cat onto the pavement and walking warily into the streetlight, stopping well out of her reach. And it was her turn to gape.

His eyes, now that she could see them, were a brilliant sea green.

She glanced quickly down at his hand. Sure enough, there was the edge of a large birthmark showing.

Rose gave him a quick once-over. He looked to be about ten – definitely pre-adolescent, at any rate, and scrawny as a street rat.

The silence was drawing out too long. "What were you doing there?" she asked him.

"Looking for food, ma'am," he replied, a hair short of insolent.

"Been sleeping rough long?" He shrugged.

The solution to several interlocking puzzles suddenly burst into her mind, and she smiled. "Look," she told him earnestly. "Despite what it looks like, I'm not with the SS. I'm with the Resistance."

His young, unschooled face showed his skepticism. "Would an SS member be disposing of SS bodies?" she asked him, shaking out one of the uniform jackets to show him the insignia.

A little less sure now, he peered up at her again, still not speaking. He'd learned the value of silence, at least.

"You know," she mused, "the Resistance could use a likely, resourceful lad like you. Here's what I want you to do. Go to this address tomorrow morning," and she gave him the place she had learned later was her Dad's group's alternate meeting place, "and give them the password Bad Wolf."

"The fairy tale?" he broke in, derisive.

"Yup. The fairy tale." Her secret mirth had nothing to do with the Resistance. "Can you think of a more innocent phrase to sneak past the Nazis?" He shrugged, still unwilling to give her anything. "Give them that password, and then tell them this message. Listen, now, this is very important. Tell them that Red Wolf and Chickadee have been captured. Chickadee has been taken to an army barracks for the usual treatment, location unknown. Red Wolf has been taken to the county jail at Stanford, where he'll be held for several days. Can you remember all that?"

To her complete lack of surprise, he repeated the message word for word, and she nodded.

"Don't give them any description of me; they won't know who I am. I'm in a different cell," she explained, and apparently the very intelligent boy knew what that meant. "Just give them this name: Gemini. They won't know it yet, but they will."

"Gemini," he repeated. The effect of the detailed messages had convinced the boy of her veracity, and he was beginning to get into the spirit of things.

"Good," she grinned to herself, having just set up her own Resistance Informant credentials and laid the groundwork for her Dad's rescue by the Resistance, and the coming rumor of her Mum's death. "Off you go, then."

He stared straight at her a moment longer, seeming to see right through to her soul, then the young Paul Corvantes of Reich World turned without a word and slipped silently into the shadows, and was gone.

Rose watched him go, then raised the time jumper again, added ten minutes to source of the last jump, and flashed back to the flat.

^..^

Apparently ten minutes had been long enough for Pete to give his wife the gist of what had happened. Jackie turned to Rose as she reappeared, gave her a searching look, and then silently held out her arms to her wayward daughter.

Rose fell into them, clutching her in desperation, suddenly sobbing her heart out. "I'm sorry, Mum. I'm so, so sorry," she said, brokenly, over and over.

Jackie held her tightly, rocking back and forth, tears pouring anew over her own cheeks, while Pete put his arms around both his women and held them close.

Finally, Rose's sobs began to ease. She pulled back slightly, but Jackie leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I forgive you, darling," she said simply. That threatened to start the tears again, but Rose held them back with fisted knuckles pressed hard against her mouth, like she'd done as a child.

Then Jackie added, the exasperated Mum note in her voice matching the stern look on her face, "I told you that Stones was bad news!"

That broke them all up, relieved laughter swallowing up the shed tears before they drowned in them.

Finally Pete said, "We'd better get out of here before their buddies come looking."

Rose nodded agreement.

"Wait!" Jackie cried. "I'm not leaving without our pictures!" She scrambled for the nightstand, pulling out a thick photograph album and returning to the other two with it cradled in her arms. Then she gave Pete a sharp look. "Unless you already have it?"

"No," he grinned mistily. "It was missing when I came back to look for it. Now I know why."

They shared a look of such love that it brought prickling tears again to Rose's eyes. "OK," she said to cover it. "Grab my arm and hold on tight."

Both her parents reached for her arm, and Pete wrapped his other arm around his wife and snugged her tightly up against his side, the Never Letting Go Again look on his face obvious.

Rose let her supernova smile loose. "Ready?" she asked.

"Ready!' came the twin replies.

The American Rose called up and locked in the coordinates for their house in Virginia, the night she and Pete had left it on their greatest mission, and took her reunited family home.

* * *

 **Tudor Rose**

Five months of their agreed trial six had passed. Hannah figured out early on the best way to fill in the now-existing gaps of John's excellent education – excellent for the sixteenth century, that is – had been to get him his own laptop, teach him how to use it, and then enroll him in an informal online GED prep course. He took to it gleefully, his lively intelligence both absorbing the knowledge contained in the various subjects and quickly going far afield on the internet, searching out supplemental information whenever and wherever his fancy took him. His online education was augmented every weekend with trips to museums, libraries, and concerts of all types. (He'd discovered a surprising affinity for jazz, although classic rock and current pop were OK, too – once he got used to the sheer volume level.)

Came the Friday she returned from work to find him in his usual location at the kitchen table, but leaning back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully out the window. She smooched him hello, then settled into the chair opposite, noticing as she did a map displayed on his laptop. "Have you decided on the weekend's adventure?" she asked with a wide grin.

"Mm-hmm. We're going to need to borrow your friend's car again."

"Why? Where are we going?"

He studied her for a moment, seriously. "Mauvais Loup."

She was startled. "I thought it was in ruins." That discovery had been the result of one of their first joint internet explorations, after which his desire to see what had become of his old estate had evaporated.

John nodded, then abruptly changed the subject, leaning forward to take her hand in his. "Hannah," he began earnestly, "I'm well aware that you've been supporting both of us financially. I haven't been doing my part, and it isn't fair to you. Though at this point there doesn't seem to be much I could do – other than wait tables," he added with a grimace. They'd both agreed that this wasn't a good career choice for him. "But I've come up with an idea, that will change that situation, and let me contribute in some way." He nodded towards his laptop. "I've been searching everywhere, all over the internet, for the past few days. And as far as I can determine, nobody has ever found... " A sly grin slowly crossed his face as he paused, drawing it out. "... my uncle's treasure."

Hannah gaped and spluttered. "Treasure? You mean... treasure treasure? Like gold?"

He nodded again. "Gold, silver... and even more importantly – and what I've been mostly searching for, and why I'm certain it's never been found – a particular cache of documents from the Wars of the Roses, before I was born. They could be worth a fortune to historical societies or a university, just by themselves."

"But could we claim it, legally?"

"Mauvais Loup is now on public land. I looked that up, too. Treasure found on public land is – ah – 'finders keepers'." His voice made amused air quotes around the modern phrase.

"But the place is in ruins!"

Ever the dramatic, he again drew it out just long enough, as he tapped a button on the laptop to change the window, then turned it towards her. "But the chapel isn't." The photograph now splashed across the screen showed that the tiny stone church where they'd buried the baby, ancient now and covered in moss and vines, still stood. John waited till her wide eyes came back to his. "It's buried under the floor, behind the altar."

^..^

Early next morning, she borrowed the car and they loaded it up with a picnic, then stopped at a home store for a pick and a shovel. The drive out to the old estate, while infinitely shorter than by horse-drawn carriage, and passing by jarringly modern sights, was still full of memory for both of them.

John grinned when he caught sight of the time jumper on her wrist. "Why are you bringing that?" It was the first time she'd taken it out of the dresser since their return.

She shrugged, touching it briefly like a talisman before returning her hand to the steering wheel. "Just in case we need to go searching back in history for the treasure," she replied. Truthfully, she'd put it on purely on a wild impulse, because it simply felt right.

He watched her profile for a moment, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth, and she wondered if he somehow sniffed the truth. But then he just shook his head, and returned to watching the countryside flow by.

The overgrown, tumbled ruins of the house were tucked into a large public "wilderness area", encompassing all of the old estate and more, hundreds of acres of wild green nature outside the city, crisscrossed by horse and hiking trails. The tiny car park nearest the ruins was empty, and no one was in sight. Hannah and John stood for a time silently gazing at the scattered, low piles of brick and stone, all that remained of their stately former home, then turned wordlessly towards the woods.

Those woods had overgrown the margin long ago; the chapel was now deep inside the gloom. A faint footpath led past the old oaks and elms, circled the chapel, and then meandered through the scattered remaining gravestones before wandering off to meet the main hiking trail.

John dropped the tools softly on the ground near the door and turned aside, heading unerringly to the spot etched deeply into both their hearts. The wording on the tiny stone had long been eroded away, but they knew its shape. He stared down at it for a long, long moment of stillness. Then, without looking up at her beside him, he asked, his voice low and hesitant. "Hannah… Tell me the truth. Which baby is buried here?"

Her breath caught. That had been the one part of her story that she'd never been able to confess to him, stopping at the now-known virtues of her breast milk, instead. When she was finally able to speak, her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

"Catherine's."

He nodded, as if he'd expected it after all.

"I didn't... I didn't plan it, John. God knows, I never wanted that to happen. And I certainly didn't cause it to happen. He – the Prince – just... died, without any warning at all, lying beside me on the bed after I'd nursed him, just minutes before they left for London. I was feeding little Johnny. I just... switched their clothes. I wasn't even thinking. I just did it automatically." The words which, once started, had tumbled out over themselves came to an abrupt halt, and she bit her lip, waiting for his judgment.

Which was a long time coming. John lifted his head, studying the sunbeams slanting down through the green. "Well," he finally said, his voice straining faintly to be matter-of-fact, the essence of letting things go, "he wasn't really mine, anyway – not by blood. He was Henry's. And he sat on the throne, didn't he?"

"Yes." Hannah was still whispering, not trusting her voice. "Henry the Ninth." She'd checked on the internet their second day back, while John was sleeping, staring with a wistful, tearful smile at the familiar brown eyes – her eyes – smiling at the viewer from the official portrait of that next king.

"Do you think Henry knew?" he wondered. "Or Catherine?"

She took a deep breath, staring out over the grave, back into memory, at the scene etched there of the two monarchs sitting on their makeshift thrones at their joint "trial", Henry's hand clutching his wife's arm tightly, preventing her from saying a word. "Yes. I think they both knew."

"So that's what it was all about, after all? The baby?"

Hannah thought a moment, then shrugged. "I think it was about getting rid of two people who had become... inconvenient." Her voice trailed off into silence again. Beside her, John slowly nodded agreement, then himself took a deep, deep, cleansing breath, again letting the past go.

But that past was five hundred years ago, and they were both here and now, with each other. Hannah bit her lip, then bit the bullet. "John?" she quavered. Her voice stopped abruptly, then she made herself go on, asking the most important question of her life. "Can you forgive me?"

He turned at last to stare at her, his expression at first unreadable. Then, finally, a smiling wonder spread across his handsome face. "Forgive you? Madame..." Grinning widely, he threw his arms out to the side, encompassing all. "I'm here, alive, and free – thanks to you – and with an incredible, fantastic, shining future... with the woman I love." His shook his head, his expression unutterably kind and joyful. "There's nothing to forgive."

Her heart singing, she turned and went into his arms, and they folded around her, and at last she knew peace.

^..^

Finally, they turned back towards the old chapel and scooped up the tools. The wooden door had long ago rotted away; they gingerly stepped across the threshold into the mossy shadows and made their way up towards the altar.

"I wonder if the ghosts are still here?" Hannah said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the floor, as his old tales of hauntings flooded back into memory.

John chuckled, halting beside her. "According to the internet, they're still seen occasionally. Maybe they've been guarding the treasure for us." His voice turned mock-solemn, and he intoned towards the altar where the phantoms had always been reportedly sighted, "I am John Wolfram, the last Viscount Pendleton, known to you of old, and I have come to retrieve my rightful property. Will you let us pass, o Spirits of the Chapel Green?"

They listened hard, their hearts pounding, but no reply was heard – unless the wind in the trees outside was the answer. Glancing at each other at the same moment, they burst into slightly hysterical giggles at their foolish whimsey, then proceeded around the ancient carved stone altar.

John handed her the pick, and bent with the shovel to scrape away the inches of dirt and moss that had accumulated on the floor, searching for the edges of the stone he knew wasn't mortared in place. The treasure, he'd told her, was in a wooden box in the hole beneath it.

Suddenly Hannah jumped. "Ouch!" The time jumper had sent a piercing electric shock through her skin! She flipped up the leather cover and peered at it. It seemed to have turned on of its own accord, a dim light skittering across the display. The tiny screen was clouded over as if fogged. She used her forefinger to try to wipe it off – jumping a little as another tiny electric shock sparked between device and finger, like static electricity.

And then, without warning, a brilliant, unearthly white light hit her face.

* * *

 **Captain Jack**

Jack was relaxing back at "his" hub, a small, self-satisfied smile tickling the corners of his mouth as he watched Joel putter around. Corvantes' techie had enthusiastically agreed to help him scatter the goons, then they dismantled the dimension cannon (saving several small, key components) and dumped the rest on a distant garbage planet, far into the future, just as Jack had promised Jared.

Joel's jaw had dropped when he saw the infant stage of the cannon back in Jack's own time period, about an hour after he and Jared had first flashed forward to rescue Rose. "We've got a LOT of work to do!" he groaned, then looked hesitantly at his host. "I mean, if you want me to help..."

"Why else did I bring you back with me?" Jack leered. "OK, I mean, why else?" he'd amended when Joel blushed. This is going to be fun. He brushed aside the flickering memory of Ianto, crisply suited as always, attending the coffee urn still gathering dust in the corner, and vowed never to ask Joel to make any coffee, before he flicked that thought away as well.

"Toss me that last jumper," he told his new friend, and grabbed it out of the air. They'd discovered the mysterious box of time jumpers held one unused extra, for reasons unknown. Jack sat back in the office chair he'd dragged down weeks ago to the lower level near the rift, and began comparing the leftover jumper to the one he'd worn for centuries. Something about these new models had caught Jared's eye way back at the start of their little adventure, although the Time Lord hadn't been able to identify exactly what, and Jack was determined to figure out the mystery himself. After all, wasn't he the time jumper expert of the group?

Just as he was smirking over that thought, the odd jumper stabbed his fingers with a painful jolt of electricity. As he looked even closer at it, it tingled again – and then a brilliant, unearthly white light from nowhere hit his face, there in the bowels of his lair.

* * *

 **Celtic Rose**

Rhosyn took the young Paul under her own wing immediately, tentatively reaching out to him with words of welcome and reassurance. He skittered for a bit, unsure of her, then latched on with all the raw need of the frightened, lonely orphan he was. She worried sometimes that she'd taken on more than she could handle, but she'd had a glimpse (though not well understood due to the language difficulties) of how he might turn out without guidance.

It quickly became apparent that she was wrestling for his very soul with the worst of the street. Even egalitarian, sensible Britain wasn't immune to street gangs and organized crime, and the one operating in his neighborhood was tugging hard on him to join. In turn, she urged him to stay in school, helped him with his homework, and encouraged him to spend all his spare time at the dojo, even giving him odd jobs (sweeping, running errands) to keep him occupied when he wasn't practicing, as well as giving him a bit of pocket money – a pittance compared to the riches touted in the crime trade, to be sure, but at least it was something. It worked for almost three years, and then, when he slipped hard into the grip of gangly, hormone-ridden adolescence, he started coming around less and less, making excuses for his increasingly frequent absences.

She knew she had to do something. Against all her better judgment, she finally decided to tell him everything, the whole story of her adventure in the past, to try to show him that there was a better way to live, that even a nobody shop girl – and even an orphan from the street – can make a difference, can even change the world. So one evening, when again he didn't come to the dojo, she pulled the time jumper back out of its shoe box in her closet, put it on and covered it with the sleeve of her hoodie, and went out looking for him.

Two hours passed as she wandered the streets with no sign of the teen. She stopped to sit and think for a bit in the quiet, tree-lined courtyard at the library – closed for the day hours ago, and eerie this late at night with ghostly stirrings and rustlings from the bits of garden in the big planters all around. On impulse, she flipped up the jumper and turned it on, looking at the readings for the current time and location, and carefully storing the latter (she had spent some time carefully fiddling with it during the years since, and learned how to do at least that much). Somehow she thought she might need a quiet, secure bolt hole.

Back on her feet, she hit the streets again, circling around in a wide arc back to the gang's known hideout, an abandoned building behind the sprawling high school. It had been empty when she checked earlier, but now the noise level from inside told her it at least some members had arrived. Taking a gulp of air and trying to calm her nerves, she stepped inside –

– and found herself in deep trouble.

She'd blundered into a gang initiation – and the initiate was Paul. He was standing in the middle of a circle of thugs, a pistol held in one shaking hand, pointed at the floor, while before him, on his knees, was a bound and gagged prisoner – a street bum, from the look of him. The bum was utterly terrified, his enormous eyes staring mesmerized at the pistol as if it were a cobra about to strike. Rhosyn took it in at a glance, even as the gang turned as one to stare malevolently at her; she'd interrupted a ritual execution.

"Paul!" she cried, though her voice came out in a strangled whisper. "Don't do this!" Shoving all thoughts of her own safety aside, she managed to make her feet move, and pushed through the circle to stand between him and his proposed victim.

Paul's eyes were glowing, vivid green against his pale face. She wasn't sure if he was terrified or exhilarated, nor if he knew himself.

"This isn't the way, Paul," she whispered, shaking. SHE was certainly terrified. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," he replied, and a small part of her seized on the slight quiver in his voice in relief – he wasn't completely out of reach yet. "I have to do this," he went on, a bit stronger, as if convincing himself. "There's no other way."

"Of course there's another way! Haven't I been showing you that?" The other gang members were getting restless, unwilling to let this interruption continue much longer. Their growls and shouts were getting steadily louder and more aggressive.

Paul's eyes flickered, and a tiny sob escaped his mouth, his mask beginning to slip so that she saw the fear getting stronger. She held out a trembling hand. "Give me the gun, Paul. Please. Give me the gun."

Before he could blink, they ran out of time. "Enough of this!" the gang leader, a hulking young man barely into adulthood, snarled in fury. He stalked forward and grabbed the gun out of Paul's hand, then pointed it directly between Rhosyn's eyes. "You interrupted our business, bitch. This time you'll pay the price."

"No!" Astounded, her heart thumping wildly, Rhosyn realized the word had come from Paul. The boy swiveled around to face the leader, his eyes fierce and narrow. "Let her go."

This rebellion from what he'd thought was his latest recruit only served to infuriate the leader further. He swung the pistol over from Rhosyn's forehead to Paul's. "So much for your test, punk. You lose."

His thumb swung up to cock the pistol, but Rhosyn was moving, too. Faster than she'd ever moved in her life, she grabbed Paul's hand in hers – the one wearing the time jumper – simultaneously flipping the jumper open with her other hand, and stabbing Recall and Execute at lightning speed.

The pistol roared as the two of them flashed out, the bullet slamming through empty air where Paul's head had been a millisecond earlier. They stumbled together out of the transport flash and into the library courtyard, lit now by an enormous, brilliant full moon.

"Holy SHIT!" Paul screamed hoarsely, his adolescent voice cracking uncontrollably. His legs collapsed, and he sat, hard, on the edge of a planter, ripping his numbed hand from hers. His eyes swung around the courtyard frantically, as if expecting it to disappear, or the gang to burst out of the bushes at any second, before finally fastened on Rhosyn, utterly bewildered, and still terrified. "What the HELL just happened?"

She wanted to go sit beside him, but her legs, as rubbery as his must have been, wouldn't move just then. "It's OK, Paul, it's OK. I transported us out of there, with this."

She moved to hold up her arm with the jumper on it to show him, but all of a sudden she got a tremendous shock from the device, lancing through her wrist and forearm. "Ouch!" Flipping open the lid, she peered closely at the dim light skittering across the display, not at all what it usually showed, pre- or post-jump. The tiny screen was clouded over as if fogged. She used her forefinger to try to wipe it off – jumping a little as another tiny electric shock sparked between device and finger, like static electricity.

And then, without warning, a brilliant, unearthly white light hit her face.

* * *

 **Reich Rose**

Rose waved a cheerful goodbye to her Mum and Dad, and punched Activate on the time jumper on her wrist. The past year had been magical, absolutely fantastic. Oh, there were bumps, times when they rubbed each other the wrong way – but immediately, the ever-present memory of what they'd each suffered came crashing through and instantly wiped away any irritation. For the first time since Pete had initially gone to prison, way back when Rose was just eleven years old, they really, truly felt like a complete, whole, loving, respectful family.

They had decided to keep the time jumper a secret from the American CIA, not wanting to lose it – or risk the chance of their timeline getting mucked up again. Once Rose had thoroughly explained the entire story to her parents, they'd all agreed not to go that route. Rose and/or Pete did, however, very occasionally use it to sneak back into England, to meet with the Resistance to coordinate some action or another, always keeping the jumper's existence an absolute secret. (Jackie, glad to be rescued, had resigned completely from any active role in the ongoing cold war, and was now enjoying the quiet, uneventful life of an American housewife.)

Word had reached Pete from his old cell, now led by the capable Charlie, that it appeared from the instruments left behind by Rose's twin, Ulva (Alpha Rose), that the rift underneath the Knolls Monument in St Ives was opening up again. He'd conferred with his own daughter, and they'd decided that she would flash over there and investigate it. They had good, undetectable, secure satellite phones now, and she'd call him if there was any action, or any chance of meeting Alpha Rose or another parallel traveler.

She came out of the flash in an upper-level bedroom of the safe house in St Ives, crept downstairs to find the place empty, and sat back to wait cautiously. A few minutes later, Charlie let himself in, along with three others in his group. She greeted the ones she knew, then turned to the last one; a young man.

With sea-green eyes.

"I don't know if you remember me," Paul began, and she interrupted.

"Of course I do. I see you found your way," she grinned at him, and he grinned back. The combined wattage of their two smiles could have lit the entire block. _Whoa!_ thought Rose. _Oh, boy._

Charlie started talking, then, about the readings they were getting from the Rift, and she tore her eyes away from Paul and responded. There was still a curfew on, so they needed to get out to investigate it and then back inside the safe house before dark. "Let's go, then!" Rose zipped up her light jacket and led the way outside.

Although there was a curfew, there was always a curfew, and nothing had occurred to make the Nazis suspicious, so only a bare handful soldiers were idly patrolling the streets. Rose and the men made like tourists, "wandering" over to the Monument, then – taking a quick look around to make sure they were unobserved – slipping down the overgrown path to the crypt in the back of the hill. They found the entrance and slipped inside, lighting the handful of candles they had brought to see with.

"Now, show me the equipment," Rose began, when suddenly she jumped as an electric shock pierced her wrist from the jumper. Just as the others had, she opened it up and tried to wipe the "fog" off the screen, getting another jolt.

And the same brilliant, unearthly white light hit her face.

* * *

 **Byzantine Rose**

By the time the inevitable Orthodox service at the Gate of Our Lady was over, tears were streaming unchecked down Rose's face, but she was able to pass them off as the same tears of joy and thanksgiving many other tourists were bearing, rather than the painfully suppressed laughter they actually were. She staggered back to the bus with the others, and, pleading a sudden headache, sat out the next two stops while another teacher took "her" kids in tow. They continued to trade the favor back and forth all week, whenever one or the other needed a short break.

At long last, on their final full day, they were taken to the magnificent Hagia Sophia cathedral, centerpiece of the holy city and undisputed highlight of any tour. After they filed respectfully past the glass-encased (and VERY heavily guarded) Sword of Justice, Rose traded a glance with her co-conspirator, received a wave of acknowledgment, and slipped away from the group to explore on her own. She wanted to find her glass portrait. The sacred, fragile stained glass window had been carefully removed from harm at some point in the intervening centuries, and was now stowed away in the holy of holies, a secret chapel hidden away in the recesses of the cathedral and also containing the tomb of "her" emperor, Constantine XI, guarded (it was said) by his ghost, along with those of several saints.

Rose slipped through the shadowy back halls, somehow avoiding both guards and priests, until at last she discovered the little chapel. She stood on the intricately-woven Eastern carpet for several long minutes, awash in cascading memories, her eyes soaking in the still-vivid hues of the glass, lit from behind by dozens of candles that cast a magical air over every detail as well as an intricate mosaic of color on the emperor's white marble tomb below.

Sometimes she couldn't believe she'd actually done it. She'd gone through long periods, weeks and months, when it never even crossed her mind, then, suddenly, something would remind her and she'd be giddy with the triumph and accomplishment. And wracked by increasing doubt. All the certainties she'd grown up with, unwavering faith in the Most Holy Orthodox Church, was slowly draining away, and she didn't know what to do with the increasingly bitter dregs.

There were no answers here, only colored glass. Beautiful, but cold and silent.

Sighing, she turned away to find her group again. And stopped, frozen.

Behind her, in the doorway, the Holy Father, Prelate of Constantinople and the leader of the Orthodox Church, stood gaping at the vision before him of the Angel of Heaven made flesh. He fell to his knees and raised his hands to her, weeping. "Blessed Holy Saint Rose, is there danger once more? Have you come to guard your city again?" he began in Greek.

"Oh, no. Not again! Please, Father, I'm not..." Rose spluttered to a halt. No. I am so NOT going through this again! Suddenly inspiration struck. She could wipe away all the myth in one fell swoop!

She raised her arm and pulled her long sleeve back, about to show the time jumper to the Prelate, when suddenly she jumped. "Ouch!" The jumper had sent a piercing electric shock through her skin! She flipped up the leather cover and peered at it. It seemed to have turned on of its own accord, a dim light skittering across the display. The tiny screen was clouded over as if fogged. She used her forefinger to try to wipe it off – jumping a little as another tiny electric shock sparked between device and finger, like static electricity.

And then, without warning, a brilliant, unearthly white light hit her face.

* * *

 **Swedish Rose**

So now they had to decide again: which century did they want to live in? It was Paul who tipped the scales. "Mummy? I want to become a doctor – a children's doctor, so I can cure kids like Elsa, too." And after all, they were set for life with the lottery money – even more so than back at the Swedish estate. Thorsten, nostalgic for his home, nevertheless agreed that they were all much better off here and now. Besides, now freed from the worry for his daughter, he was having much too much fun exploring this brave new world.

So Rose took the time jumper down to the basement, where the ghosts had always been said to be strongest – though they'd never seen any (though perhaps too preoccupied to notice) – to carefully put it away in a secure, fireproof strongbox in the corner. As she crossed the floor with it in her hands, though, without warning, she received a sharp electric shock from the jumper. "Ouch!" She jumped and exclaimed.

Holding the jumper up, she flipped open the lid, peering at it. It seemed to have turned on of its own accord, a dim light skittering across the display. The tiny screen was clouded over as if fogged. She used her forefinger to try to wipe it off – jumping a little as another tiny electric shock sparked between device and finger, like static electricity.

And then, without warning, a brilliant, unearthly white light hit her face.

* * *

And so, in seven parallel worlds, six women with identical DNA, and one man who had been fundamentally changed by the original and so bore her imprint, approached their respective opening to the single complex rift through time and space and the void between the worlds, while holding a mysterious time jumper in their hands. They each felt the warning sparks as the jumper's deeply-hidden purpose awoke and identified its holder, then it sent its long-awaited signal back through the rift to its waiting creator.

And the gates of hell creaked open...


	12. Destiny

**Destiny**

 **The Spider in the Web**

Alpha Rose blinked hard, squinting past her fingers at the blinding light flooding out from the contained Rift. As it slowly faded, gathering up and sinking into a point a few feet before her at waist height, she realized she was somehow within the Rift itself.

Shadowy figures beyond and around the congealing object swam slowly into view. When she could finally make them out, she gasped – a single sound, multiplied by six: five mirror images of herself, and one male figure. The six Roses and Jack looked wildly at each other for a moment as the light continued fading. Standing behind all but one of them were other shadowy figures, seemingly not quite in the same dimension, but watching with matching, uncomprehending astonishment. Alpha Rose recognized Joel standing behind Jack, then took in an unknown man and a priest behind two of her twins, and then, astounded again, recognized teenaged versions of their former captor, Paul Corvantes, behind two of the others! Glancing quickly behind herself, she could dimly see Jared there, seeming to shout her name, although no sound came through the fog that cut them off. Nor could she reach back through it to him; the fog instantly contracted before her hand, trapping her as surely as a force field. He was trapped outside the Rift boundary as surely as she was trapped within it.

"Ulva?" squeaked Reich Rose. "What's going on? Did you bring us here?"

Alpha Rose shook her head, drawing breath to deny it, but before she could speak a word she was cut off, by an impossibly deep, gravelly voice.

"THIS IS NOT HER DOING. THIS IS MY CREATION."

"I know that voice..." Alpha Rose gasped out, shaken and suddenly frozen to her core.

"So do I," Jack replied. His face was bone white. "The Dalek Emperor..."

"YOU ARE CORRECT. WELCOME TO MY WOLF TRAP, BAD WOLF."

The voice was emanating from the thing between them. To her complete lack of surprise, it had finally congealed into a roughly Dalek-shaped metallic form, about half the size of a full Dalek. And nowhere near big enough to produce that booming voice.

"No," she denied, shaking her head. "This can't be. The Dalek Emperor was destroyed. I ripped you atom from atom back at Platform Five."

The top of the pint-sized Dalek swiveled around, bringing the eye stalk she hadn't seen before to bear upon her; she realized he hadn't known which one was her until she spoke.

"YOU TRIED TO DESTROY ME. YOU ONLY PARTIALLY SUCCEEDED. AN EMERGENCY TEMPORAL TRANSPORT TOOK PART OF MY BODY OUT OF DANGER – NOT ALL BUT ENOUGH. ENOUGH TO BEGIN REBUILDING, BEGIN PLANNING MY REVENGE."

"You set this whole thing up, didn't you?" demanded Jack, bringing the eye stalk around to him again. "But how?"

The Emperor seemed willing to boast, like all stereotypical villains, wanting his victims to understand how he had beaten them before they died.

"LONG BEFORE YOU CAME TO DESTROY US, BAD WOLF, ANOTHER HUMAN STUMBLED INTO OUR MOTHER SHIP, BRINGING A MOST EXTRAORDINARY GIFT."

^..^

Right in mid-transit of his final jump, Corvantes' arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket, when something seemed to grab the time jumper on his wrist and yank it – and him – sideways. He came stumbling out of the transport flash and went sprawling on an oily metal floor. Coughing from the greasy smoke immediately assaulting his lungs, he shook his head and began to gather himself up, only to be stunned into silent immobility at the sight which met his eyes, materializing through the haze: a dozen rolling robots were surrounding him, clamoring with their metallic voices for him to explain his presence.

And then the smoke cleared further, revealing a monstrosity: a huge spider-like metal body housing a gigantic, disembodied brain. Corvantes could only think, _*so this is hell*_.

The voice of the abomination boomed through its speakers, the same flat metallic voice as the others, deepened to an impossibly low register.

"BRING THE HUMAN TO ME."

"Emperor, he wears a vortex manipulator, of Dalek origin. He did not come from the human satellite."

Corvantes was forced to his knees before the Emperor, too witless to speak.

"EXPLAIN THIS, HUMAN."

The jumper was pulling on his arm again, this time forcing it to rise up before him, as if it were responding to an irresistible magnetic force, pulling it towards the Emperor's casing.

"I..." he spluttered, trying desperately to think. "I don't understand..."

"SILENCE. YOUR WORDS ARE CLUMSY AND INEFFICIENT. I WILL TAKE THE INFORMATION DIRECTLY FROM YOUR MIND."

An articulated arm was extending from the Emperor's undercarriage, which ended in a frighteningly ordinary-looking plunger. Corvantes could only gape as it swung up to his level, made a minute adjustment, and then swiftly attached itself to his face.

His last conscious thought was to realize the he was only a very puny, insignificant little being, after all.

 _^..^_

The Dalek Emperor, realizing that the human had come from almost two hundred thousand years in the past, discarded most of the primitive mewlings his memories revealed, keeping only the details that seemed to relate to his coming to this time. He filed them away deep in the recesses of his labyrinthine mind: the date the eight vortex manipulators were found and where; the existence of the parallel worlds connected by branches of the odd little rift in time and space there on the Earth's surface; and the face of the woman abducted from each parallel, who seemed to be the root cause of it all.

Then he forgot it, and went on with the task at hand: rebuilding his army of Daleks from the detritus of the human race being dribbled to his hidden spaceship from his puppet, the Controller installed to manage the games on the nearby human satellite.

Decades passed, and his plans – and his army – were nearing completion, when without warning, the ancient nemesis of the Daleks appeared: the Doctor. The Emperor paid no attention to the pink-and-yellow girl accompanying his enemy; the Doctor had always surrounded himself with these humans. He sampled her DNA automatically, as he had done with all the other thousands of human victims, then concentrated instead on rushing the final steps of his plan, sending out the fleet, and rushing to defeat the despised Time Lord.

Even when the girl reappeared, eyes glowing, and began her mystical mumbo-jumbo about being "The Bad Wolf", he brushed it aside, ignoring the tiny twinge of recognition the words and her face were stimulating. He never believed she was a credible threat, any more than he believed the Doctor would carry out his mad "defense" of the planet below – right up till the moment she raised her hand and sent a wave of atomic destruction inexorably through his fleet. And his ship. And then, even himself. He saw the edges of his monstrous metal body begin to fray, and frantically activated the emergency temporal transport circuits to escape. Even then, he left part of himself behind, floating through space near Planet Earth as disconnected atoms.

And once more, the Emperor began the long climb up from nothing, with only his own formidable wits to help him – wits and implacable vengeance. But now, he had a new target: the human girl calling herself Bad Wolf. Where and when had she come from.

And that's when the memories of the out-of-time human came bubbling to the surface, and he connected her face with that of his seven victims. Finally, he managed to drag up the girl's name: Rose Tyler.

Armed with the date, and the other details, he set about laying the Ultimate Wolf Trap, as he named it to amuse himself. First he sent agents back through the Rift to each parallel, whose task it was to ensure that each woman named Rose came into contact with each version of the human male, Paul Corvantes.

Then, once he had sufficient raw materials, he constructed the eight vortex manipulators, hiding several additions away inside each: a core of pure Dalekanium, a few of his own brain cells as the heart of the device's processor. And some very special instructions:

First, if the device found itself near his old hiding place by the satellite, it would bring its wearer to his ship; thus ensuring the return of that human male.

And second, when the device came within a certain distance from the rift, its secondary program would activate. It would sample the DNA of its wearer, and compare it to that of Rose Tyler (extracted from that automatic sample), and if it matched: send the signal back through the rift to its master, waiting patiently in the dark.

^..^

"AND NOW THEY HAVE CREATED THE FINAL TRAP, BRINGING YOU TO THIS POCKET OF SPACE I CREATED IN THE THE RIFT THAT BINDS YOUR PARALLEL WORLDS TOGETHER – AND WILL BE GROUND ZERO FOR THE DESTRUCTION OF ALL YOUR PUNY PLANETS CALLED EARTH."

In the echoing silence after that pronouncement could be heard a single gasp from seven human throats. Alpha Rose rasped out, "What do you mean?"

"THE MANIPULATORS ARE NOW LOCKED IN SYNCHRONIZATION WITH THE BOMB YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. THE COUNTDOWN HAS BEGUN. IN THIRTY RELS, THE CORE WILL DETONATE, SPREADING OUT THROUGH THE RIFT TO CONSUME EACH PLANET EARTH WITHIN EACH PARALLEL WORLD. IT WILL FINALLY SEE THE DESTRUCTION OF THE HUMAN MENACE.

"AND MY REVENGE WILL BE COMPLETE. BAD WOLF WILL BE DESTROYED, JUST AS YOU DESTROYED MY ARMY, AND TRIED TO DESTROY ME. NOW NOTHING AND NO ONE WILL STAND AGAINST ME."

" 'Manipulators'?" breathed Swedish Rose into the stunned silence that followed. "What does he mean?"

"The time jumpers," Jack told her. "They came from him." Then, "Rose, look!" He raised his hand holding the Dalek's jumper, and Alpha Rose saw a thread of light had spun between the jumper and the Dalek bomb. Glancing around, each of the other jumpers also had its thread – and even as she looked, more threads were spinning out between them, attaching each jumper to each other one, until a spiderweb of light criss-crossed the heart of the Rift.

Alpha Rose shook her head. There was no time to explain everything to her innocent twins. Half of the thirty rels – thirty seconds – was already gone. She started to turn to look at Jared one last time – but then whipped back as the answer burst across her brain.

"The jumpers!" she shrieked. "Quick! Take them off! Punch in coordinates – any time, any place, it doesn't matter! Just random!" The others, bewildered and terrified, followed her instructions, even as she wildly punched the buttons on her own.

"YOU WILL NOT PREVENT MY REVENGE – " the Emperor was puffing, ignored by all.

"Now attach them to the bomb! Anywhere! When I say Go, send it off!"

"Brilliant!" Jack yelled, but nobody was paying attention, as each of them darted forward to wrap their jumper around any protruding bit of the bomb they could find.

Rose didn't wait – the countdown, she saw from the little display, was already at five – and speeding up! "Three, two, one, GO!"

At the same instant, the Dalek's countdown reached zero, starting the detonation... and seven fingers stabbed seven buttons, hoping against hope to send the bomb in seven different random directions through time and space – through the Void.

* * *

 **Bad Wolf's Paradox**

Trapped in the paradox of its own making, the Dalek Emperor's trans-dimensional bomb unleashed its planetary-sized explosion even as it was being transported through time and space under the power of the seven vortex manipulators strapped to its shell. The dimensional shielding the Emperor had used to bind the parallel worlds together at the point of its predicted detonation meant the cataclysm was not ripped apart, but rather the entire effect was sent in each of seven directions simultaneously, ripping open the space-time continuum along the seams.

The tail end of the blast, like the furthest effective zone of a jet engine, blew the seven humans backwards, through the rift barrier and back into their respective worlds, tossed across whatever space they had been standing in moments before to land in a heap, gasping and coughing.

^..^

John leapt across the chapel and scooped Hannah up, holding her close. "Good god!" he cried. "What was that all about? Where those the other versions of you?"

Hannah nodded. "I don't know what that was, really. Something to do with the one originally from the Alpha universe. I don't want to know any more. I'm just glad it's done, whatever it was." She looked up at John. "Let's get that treasure and get the hell out of here."

"Right. And we won't be back."

^..^

Picking herself up and dusting herself off, Swedish Rose paused for a moment, realizing the time jumper was gone. Good thing we'd decided to stay here, she thought. Hearing Thorsten call her from above, she smiled, climbed the stairs out of the cellar, and went to make dinner.

^..^

Rhosyn swung her head sharply, peering across the library patio at young Paul, who was still staring at her, mouth and eyes as wide as they would go. Knowing instinctively that he was much more important than processing what had just happened, including the eerie feeling of having meaning telepathically implanted in her mind even as she heard the incomprehensible words with her ears – and she'd never be able to figure out how that had worked – she put it all aside to consider later, and concentrated on the young man.

"Paul..." she began, faltering, then stronger. "This is what I've been trying to show you. There is so much more out there in the world than the tiny little piece you'd see with that gang. They'll only hold you back. You might become a big man here – what, in six city blocks? But the world is so much bigger than that. Don't let yourself be trapped by them."

Paul swallowed, hard, managing to close his mouth. "They're gonna be gunning for me now," he squeaked, as the realization hit him of the inevitable results of his having rejected the gang.

"Then I'll help you get away," she said simply. Rising, she walked over to stand before him. "Tonight. I know somewhere you can go." Her cousin, outside of town, would put him up for the night, and then the contacts she'd been making in the network of dojos would help him get set up somewhere up north.

He stared hard into her eyes, trying to gauge her sincerity. But then, in all his fourteen years, she was the only one he'd ever known that he really could trust. He nodded, stood, and took her hand, as they turned together to start his journey into his future.

^..^

"You OK?" Joel squeaked as he pulled Jack up from the floor. "What the hell was that?"

Jack laughed, snapping back into himself as he always did. "Just another day in the life. Didn't I promise that you'd never be bored?"

^..^

Breathing gingerly, feeling as though she'd burst from fear and wild excitement – now that it was all over – Byzantine Rose slowly picked herself up from the dusty chapel floor behind the Hagia Sophia. I did it. I did it again! I really did! The unfamiliar satisfied triumph of the mouse that roared coursed through her veins. A sunrise smile was breaking out on her face as she turned towards the doorway –

– and stopped cold. She'd forgotten about the Prelate kneeling there. He'd obviously witnessed the entire thing. _Oooh shit. Not again!_ Tears of worshipful joy were streaming down his face, as he raised his clasped hands to her in prayerful supplication. She didn't want to hear whatever it was he was about to say.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped closer to him, unknowingly creating a halo effect around herself from the stained glass portrait behind her. She raised a hand, and his prayer of thanksgiving died on his lips. "This must never be known," she intoned, using her best classical 'church' Greek. "I command you keep this absolutely secret. You must never tell another living soul, but only write a secret account, to be passed on to your successor, for his eyes only, and his successor, and so on down the years. No one but the Prelate of Constantinople must ever be told." She stopped a moment, considering, then added another command. Apparently this was some sort of weak spot between the worlds; the Emperor – whatever he was – had mentioned some sort of rift that was "binding the parallels together".

"Further, this chapel must be sealed forever. No one must ever enter it again. It is too holy for mortal men."

"Blessed Saint Rose, it will be done as you command," breathed the Prelate, about to die from sheer transcendent wonder at having witnessed the epic – albeit short – and incomprehensible – battle between Good and Evil inside his own cathedral.

She smiled beatifically, sketched the symbol of the cross in the air between them (just as she'd seen priests do a million times), and stepped past him, then quickly dashed down the corridor to find her tour group again.

^..^

"Hey, you all right?" somebody was asking.

Reich Rose shook her head, carefully – she'd bonked it on the wall of the crypt when the explosion had sent her flying backwards. "Yeah, I think I'll live," she replied, then took the proffered hand to pull herself up – only then realizing the owner of both the hand and the voice was the now-grown-up Paul. And there was that spark again – spark, hell, a bloody conflagration, drawing her inexorably to him, turning her insides molten liquid, drowning her in those beautiful sea-green eyes locked on hers. Was he feeling it, too? He had to be – those eyes were practically reflecting flames.

"Um," she managed after a moment, then forced herself to drop his gaze and his hand, and turn towards Charlie (who was smothering a knowing grin). "Well, I've lost the time jumper. Guess I'm going to have to get back home the hard way. Can you guys help me with that?"

^..^

Jared simply sat on the floor, up against a console where he'd landed, having been knocked off his feet by the slightest, absolute tail end of the blast, and stared at his bride. The past five minutes he'd gone from amused curiosity through panic and helpless terror, watching her through the barrier, realizing who she was up against as the voice from their past boomed out, utterly unable to do the tiniest thing to help – let alone take over and manage things the way he'd always done back when he was the Doctor. He'd watched helplessly as his beloved had wrestled with their old enemy, and then somehow had managed to come up with the solution, literally just in the very nick of time. One that he hadn't even thought of, to tell the truth.

And now...

He was still the smartest guy in the room. Absolute genius. And he was still a Time Lord – some of his senses may have been dulled by his human side, but not all of them. And those senses, the ones that had let him feel the rotation of the Earth, how it sped through space on its endless journey around the Sun, and away from the ever-expanding heart of the universe; the senses that let him know exactly where he was in time, and whether history was proceeding the way it should; the senses that showed him the presence of other Time Lords, of rifts, of powerful telepaths, and a hundred other extraordinary things; those senses were screaming at him now, as he grappled with the dawning realization of what had just happened.

Danny stepped across the cavern, shooting Jared a quizzical look then glancing away again, and helped Rose up off the floor.

"Is everything all right?" she asked breathlessly. They turned towards the overhead screens, which once more showed all seven parallel worlds humming along normally. The knots of timelines bending around hers and her dopplegangers' had disappeared.

She blew out a relieved sigh, then swung back towards Jared and walked hesitantly over to him, taking in his gobsmacked expression. "Jared? What is it?"

He unfolded his long limbs, pushing up off the floor, never breaking eye contact with her. "Do you know what you've just done?" he asked, his voice soft and breathless, a hair this side of cracking.

"Saved the universe?" Perplexed, Rose was only half joking.

"That, too. Rose... you just created the Rift."

She shook her head, completely confused. "How could I have done that? It's always been here."

"Because the seven of you sent it off in seven different directions, through time as well as space, and in parallel worlds. It ripped a hole in the spacetime continuum, just as the Emperor intended, but because it was moving like that, the hole – the tear – took the form of the combined Rifts." She started to object, and he shook his head, cutting her off. "Stop thinking linearly. Forget cause and effect. Because the rip went backwards in time as well as forwards, the cause didn't come before the effect in normal spacetime."

Rose gulped, turning to glance apprehensively at the Rift, once more contained within the glass tubing Jared had constructed. "But... there's no more danger now, right?"

"No. It's done."

She nodded, then turned back, reached up and laced her fingers behind his neck, and his arms went around her waist automatically. "Well, I couldn't have done it without you," she commented, aware that she was trying to settle her own nerves as much as his. He started to object, and this time she cut him off. "No, I mean it. Look, maybe individual things may have been done by one or the other of us, but without you – both of you," she admitted honestly, "I would never... have been anything more than an ordinary shop girl." She snuggled up close. "We're a team, remember?"

He laid his cheek on her head, still feeling wary and out-of-sorts. "I just keep wondering what you're going to do next, Bad Wolf," he admitted.

Suddenly she grinned into his collar, then pushed back so she could peer up into his face. "Well, the next thing I'm going to do, I absolutely couldn't have done by myself."

She waited a beat to see if he'd get it, biting her lips underneath dancing eyes, then clued him in, leaning up to his ear and whispering, "I'm pregnant."

His reaction was all she could have hoped for. All thoughts of Rifts and Wolves – Bad or otherwise – fled, and joy shone on his face. "Are you sure?" he squeaked.

"Yes. And somehow... I have the funniest feeling, that it's going to be a boy."

This time he did catch on. "With sea-green eyes?" he grinned.

She nodded, and they shared a kiss of pure joy.


	13. Codas

**First Coda: Spinning**

 _Five months later..._

Rose leaned against the cold hotel sink, masking her sobs with both the water flowing from the tap and the back of one hand pressed hard against her lips. Jared probably knew anyway – he always did – but she needed to pretend she was hiding it from him, putting on a brave face.

The miscarriage had ripped both of their hearts out along with the promise of life it had ended, and the world – their beautiful Beta World – had turned as black and sour as thin gruel left in an abandoned house. Rose kept trying to move forward, to begin looking for the happiness she knew _must_ be in their future, but her brittle house of cards kept crashing, a dozen times a day, as the realization came rushing back. Jared, she knew, was handling it a little better – a little – and she was trying to meet him, but he stood on the bank of a distant shore while she was drowning endlessly in her sea of black grief, waves crashing over her head every time she tried to reach for his hand.

They needed to get away, and had agreed to this tour of eastern Europe; clinging to each other has they tried to lose themselves in the sights and sounds of places neither of them had ever seen before. Rose gamely struggled on, forcing her feet to keep up with Jared as he gently led her to endless castles, museums, and cafes; and managed to forget a few times a day – even though she was never quite sure which city or even country they were in.

Tears once more spent for the moment, she washed her face with the now-cold water, applied a bit of makeup, and stepped shakily towards the door of their hotel room's bathroom. She knew before she opened it what she'd see: Jared, leaning patiently on the wall facing her, hands in his pockets, just waiting. His soulful eyes were huge, a breath away from tears himself, but he waited for her to signal what she needed.

Today it was a semblance of normalcy. She bit her lip hard, keeping from launching herself into his arms, then forced an almost normal voice to ask, "So, what's on the itinerary today?"

Jared swallowed, took a breath, and followed her lead, chattering lightly (albeit more slowly and haltingly than he used to) about the nearby state museum with its fantastic collection of historical knickknacks. She managed to wisecrack, "As long as none of them are extra-terrestrial," reminding him of their visit to Henry van Statten's museum in 2012, where they'd found the last remaining Dalek (or so they'd thought).

He led her down to the subway station a block from their hotel, and she held his hand tightly and stood close behind his shoulder so they wouldn't be separated on the crowded platform. Her eyes were caught by a nearby woman wearing a dark skirt and wrapped in a ratty, moth-eaten shawl, who clutched a baby tightly to her chest as she darted terrified looks around in all directions. She caught Rose staring at her and the shared a long, long look. Rose wondered what her story could be, to make her look so close to the end of her rope (even as Rose tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy at the baby).

Just as the rumble from the end of the platform announced the impending arrival of the subway train, another commotion at the stairs attracted Rose's attention. A huge, hulking brute of a man, surrounded by several henchmen, angrily shouldered his way through the crowd, apparently looking for someone.

A nearby gasp brought her eyes back to the ragged woman, now pushed past the limit. Even as they locked gazes, a decision clicked behind the stranger's eyes, bringing a glint of desperate determination flooding through her gaunt, haunted face. She stepped over to Rose and pushed her baby into her arms; Rose, too astonished to speak, scrambled to get a grip on the baby before she dropped it.

"Take care of him," the woman whispered with a heavy eastern European accent. Then, before Rose could move, she whirled away, took a few running steps, keeping her arms folded before her chest as if she still held the baby, just as the brute caught sight of her and yelled something angrily...

…. and flung herself in front of the oncoming train.

The man gave a wordless howl of rage, roaring above the screams of the nearby crowd. Rose instinctively edged to one side and ducked down behind Jared's shoulder, holding the baby close, as the man swiveled around and mowed his way back to the stairs, cursing loudly. Jared moved slightly in front of Rose to keep her shielded from him.

Once the man was gone along with his henchmen, Jared took a deep breath, glancing sideways at the train now slowing to a stop in front of them and grimacing in horror of what had just happened, then slowly turned to face Rose. She was hunched over the baby, staring down into the blankets. Jared's heart sank. He couldn't bear to see the look he knew would be on her face.

"Rose..." he whispered hoarsely, then began again, stronger. "Rose, we can't..."

"Jared," she interrupted him, looking up with a wide, wondering expression. "Look at his eyes!"

He glanced down, and gasped.

The baby's eyes were a brilliant sea-green.

Diving carefully into the blanket's folds, Jared reached in and gently pulled out the infant's left hand. Turning it over, he sucked in a long, careful breath, shocked but not surprised to find the Sicily-shaped birthmark on the back.

He slowly raised his eyes back to Rose's, seeing the question within. He took a breath, firmed his mouth... and nodded.

She looked back down at the baby, cuddling him closer, her first genuine smile in months gradually claiming her beautiful mouth.

"Hello, Paul," she said.

* * *

 **Second Coda: Stillness**

Slowly, gradually, millimeter by painful memory, he pulled himself together from the darkness, unwilling at first, wanting only to hide from the universe of pain, then with a sudden burst of fury pushing through to consciousness. He lay there, panting, eyes closed, as he gradually remembered things like eyes, and bodies, and surfaces to lie on. A thousand years or so of personal memories cascaded past his attention, just out of reach, but he knew they were falling back into place to be recalled at will. And at last, his identity returned, his chosen name and sense of himself: Captain Jack Harkness. He groaned theatrically, partly just to test his voice box; it had happened again. He recalled the other time he'd been blown to bits and somehow regenerated from the tiny pieces. It wasn't any more fun on repeat. He shivered as his naked body finally registered the cold air and metal floor.

Opening his eyes at length, he peered through the near-total darkness at the chaos nearby, remembering. The Hub. But why in the name of the seven moons of Holbourne was it in such bad shape? He groaned. It was going to take YEARS to rebuild this time. Then more recent memories surfaced: Weevils. Attacking through the door, killing all his team, destroying everything.

 _Wait, what?_ _That voice, the one at the end._ And with a tremendous jolt, pulling him up to an awkward, naked crouch, he remembered everything.

 _The Dalek Emperor. But WHY?_ Peering around, he spied the one area that hadn't been destroyed: the old Dimension Cannon he'd built in the far corner, and the next coin fell. _Rose. Jared. The other Roses from the other parallels. Going back in time, Jared's Angels, to create their worlds. And then that bloody Dalek Emperor rising from the ashes, pulling us together for his ultimate revenge – until she thwarted him again._

 _But why THIS attack?_ He waited patiently, and finally another memory came swimming up from the depths: the way his Hub had been trashed in the future, complete with skeletons, waiting for this universe's Corvantes to discover it.

He heaved himself up and limped over to the new pile of garbage against the wall, the one Joel had indicated so long before, and gave it a once-over, stopping when he spied what he dreaded and expected: the box containing the time jumpers, planted there by the Weevils for Corvantes' techies to find.

Jack stood still for an achingly long time, all the decades of memories he'd made in the Hub flooding past, while tears streamed down his face for all his lost companions there through the years.

No. He wasn't going to rebuild. It was finished.

He walked slowly around to his former office, shoved the remnants of his desk aside and pried open the hatch in the floor beneath it, and dropped through to his quarters, miraculously untouched. He rifled through his drawers, pulling out clothes and putting them on almost at random. Pulling himself back up through the hatch, he spied his old Army greatcoat against the wall and picked it up to inspect it. A little dusty, but no major damage. With a pained, partial grin, a shadow of his normal wattage, he put it on, automatically checking the pockets. With a surprised grunt, he pulled out his old trusty time jumper, checked it automatically and strapped it on his wrist, trying not to remember teaching Rose (any of them) how to work hers.

A long, long last look through the gloom and the tears, and he raised his wrist, thought a moment about pleasure planets and faraway systems, grabbed one almost at random, and punched the coordinates into the jumper. Then he closed his eyes, stabbed the Activate button, and Captain Jack Harkness flashed away from Earth for the final time, never to return again.

 ** _At long last..._**

 ** _FINIS_**


End file.
